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wkemeup · 4 years ago

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Sunrise (5)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 4.3k warnings: really flippin sweet fluff, more book recs a/n: to avoid confusion - the manner in which Bucky lost his arm is different in this series than in canon 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

For the first time since Bucky was discharged from active duty, he had a routine again.

The curtains were open before he took a shower in the morning; sunlight streaming in through the windows and casting a gentle glow over the apartment. It touched over books piled high on the coffee table, pillows neatly lined on the sofa, and blankets folded over the arm rest. Steve had nearly done a double take the first time he made his usual beeline to whip open the curtains to expose a dusty and unkempt apartment, only to find Bucky making coffee in the kitchen, freshly showered, and the sun shining high in the sky.

It had been almost a month since his first attendance at book club and he’d gone through nearly a book a week just to have the excuse to visit you at the library again for another. You’d given him your number after his first trip to the library with a binding promise to text you if he was held up in his apartment in pain again. You’d sworn to bring books straight to him and read them aloud if you had to.

You had laughed as you said it, like it was only a joke. Bucky had nodded along, but if he were honest, he would have liked that very much.

He’d arrange for times to meet you at the library at the end of your shift where you’d always have a book waiting for him. There’d be a few sitting on the shelf you’d set aside, but without fail, he always opted for the first one you presented to him. You hadn’t led him wrong so far.

After, though neither of you directly proposed it, you’d often find yourselves back at Luciana’s. It was like your feet simply carried you there, a silent agreement to spend as much time together as you could, even if you were both too afraid to admit it out loud.

He came to understand why Sunday was your favorite day of the week. Bucky started to take it upon himself to meet you at the library to walk you to the VA where he fulfilled his word to help move the couches before the usual members arrived. The look of surprise on your face when you bounced down the library steps and caught sight of him leaning on the pillar a few steps away from the busy sidewalk had been enough to convince him to never leave your side again.

Your smile was one he’d learned to memorize. He conjured it when the strangers bumped into him on the sidewalk threatened to collapse his racing heart entirely and it pushed him further. It was enough to convince him to keep going beyond the safety of his apartment walls and it was worth it every time. Just to see you smile at him like that.

***

“Have you started it yet?”

Bucky blinked a few times, reminding himself of his surroundings. You stood on his right side in line at Luciana’s behind a couple of tourists who were having a hard time discerning the difference between a cappuccino and an americano. He raised an eyebrow, confused, and you gestured to the book in his bag.

“Oh, I just flipped through the pages so far,” Bucky said, pulling the book from his bag; thick black cover with a small white illustrated creature staring up at the stars. Everyone's a Aliebn When Ur a Aliebn Too written by an author that seemed to go by a name as misspelled as the title, Jomny Sun. “It looks like a children’s book?”

You grinned and your shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It’s somewhere in between. You have to trust me on this one. It may seem young on the surface but it’ll tug at your heart strings. Hold your judgement until you’ve actually read it, Barnes.”

Bucky chuckled, nodding. “Hey, I never said I didn’t trust you. Just curious where you’re leading me on this one.”

“Be blind, Bucky,” you sang, teasing him. “I won’t guide you into a creepy forest or the bottom of the ocean, I promise.”

“Oh good. I was starting to worry.”

It was strange to feel so light again, but there was something about your presence that allowed him to let go of all the weight he carried. He could set down his baggage at his feet for just a minute to give his back a break, to stretch out his muscles and find relief in the solace. You would have offered to carry some of it yourself if he’d asked— of that he was certain. But it was a heavy load, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for you to see what was inside just yet.

The bell to the café rang behind him and a mother and her young son walked inside. The little boy held the woman’s hand as he scrunched his nose at the smell of the coffee, pouting up at her. A bright red backpack hung off his shoulders, Velcro ties over his tiny sneakers. The soles lit up as he walked.

“Mommy, I want to go to the playground,” the kid whined and Bucky watched you laugh to yourself from the corner of his eye.

“We will, sweetness,” the mother replied calmly. She bent down to brush the hair from the boy’s eyes. “Mommy just needs a bit of caffeine before we—”

“Whoa! What happened to that guy’s arm?” the kid gasped, a mixture of shock and amazement in his tiny little voice.

Bucky tensed up immediately, every muscle in his body turning to stone. When strangers noticed his arm, he was usually met with unwanted stares and hushed whispered, but children were a whole different story. They had no filter, no sense of the unspoken rules garnered by society; they were driven by their own curiosity and something as trivial as politeness did not get in the way of that.

“Oh, honey,” the mother gripped tight to the boy’s arm, lowing her voice in hopes Bucky hadn’t heard him, “you can’t ask things like that.”

“Why not?” the boy replied innocently. “Where’d it go?”

Bucky could feel your eyes on him, studying for his reaction, but he couldn’t offer one. He was stone, after all. A frown tugged at your lips to see the sudden distress wash over him and he felt an aching puncture of embarrassment deep into his stomach. It only took the mere mention of his arm to wipe him to a blank slate, to throw him back to the battlefield where it was torn from his body. Any unexpected reminder of it usually did.

You nodded at him, offered a small smile, like you were trying to tell him it would be alright. Then slowly, you turned around and knelt in front of the boy.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, catching the mother off guard.

“Do you know what happened to his arm?” the boy asked, must to the dismay of his mother.

“Mason! Oh God, I am so very sorry,” the mother quickly apologized, flustered as she desperately tried to hush the boy. He pressed his face into his mother’s arm.

Bucky stole a glance over his shoulder to find you kneeling on the floor beside the boy, smiling at him as he clutched a plush triceratops to his chest. You tilted your head at him, trying to get a better look at the boy.

“You want to know what happened?” you asked softly. He nodded, arms wrapped tight around his stuffed toy. You glanced up at Bucky and his eyes narrowed on you, heart beating a little faster, stomach twisting, before you turned back to the boy. “He did something really brave.”

Fuck.

Did you know?

Did Sam tell you?

Bucky’s legs started to feel weak.

“You like superheroes, huh?” you continued, pointing at the image of a man in a red cape flying on the boy’s t-shirt. The boy nodded shyly. “They swoop in and save the day with their super strength or magic powers, right?”

The boy started laughing, he was smiling again, standing free from his mother’s hold. She was staring at you like you were akin to one of the characters on the boy’s shirt. Bucky felt the stones cracking around his body, freeing him from their grip.

“Is he Super Man?” Mason whispered, glancing up at Bucky with such wonder, it took him by surprise. The boy was so small, no older than four years old. Bucky didn’t know the last time he’d even talked to a kid that young and yet here you were, at the boy’s level, making him laugh and smile and easing the concerns of his mother.

“No, he’s not,” you laughed for a moment. Then, you softened, gathering the boy’s attention again. “My friend here doesn’t have super powers. So, when he saved someone, he got hurt. But I think that makes him very brave, don’t you?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically, grinning so wide Bucky wondered how it was possible your smile could be so infectious. The mother mouthed a soft ‘thank you’ in your direction as the boy quickly changed subjects to the sprinkled donut he was going to eat for snack. She caught Bucky’s eye for a minute and nodded at him, almost in appreciation. He pressed his lips to a thin line. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say anything back.

You ordered his usual coffee and one of the freshly baked muffins, then a drink and a pastry for yourself. In Bucky’s distraction with the kid, he hadn’t noticed you pay before he had a chance. He felt like he was in a bit of a trance as you led him back to a table in the far corner of the shop, away from the windows and the customers.

“You alright?” you asked as you slid into your chair opposite him.

“Did Sam tell you?” Bucky blurted out before he had a chance to bite his tongue. It was the last thing he wanted you to know about and he had half a mind to storm up to the VA just to rip Sam a new one before he shut himself off in his apartment for a few weeks.

It was the reason for the reoccurring nightmares that hadn’t let up in the last month, even when he’d started to have more good days than bad. They’d celebrated him for what he’d done, given him a medal, and thanked him for his service. The very thought of it made him want to vomit.

“Hey, hey, Bucky look at me,” you called gently, your voice at the end of a dark tunnel. He blinked, adjusting to the light. “Sam didn’t say a word about what happened. I had a theory and I made a guess. You’re clearly a good man. It didn’t feel like much of a stretch. That’s all.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, staring down at the muffin as he picked at the paper cup. He heard you sigh, surprised that he couldn’t find a single sliver of impatience in your voice. When he looked up again, you smiled sweetly at him and asked him about Alien – Aliebn? – book; quickly lost in tangent of your favorite pages and moments you were excited for him to read.

He was grateful for the change in subject, but more than that, it gave him a chance to just admire you. There was nothing strange about watching a woman, studying the intricacies on her face and the passion in her voice, when she was speaking right to him. He nodded along, doing his best to actually take in what you were saying, but he was so easily distracted by the brush of steam touching your nose, the press of your lips into your cheeks, the lines on your forehead, and the way your eyes seemed to light up the entire city block.

The kid, his arm, and nearly six years of combat were quickly forgotten when he had the chance to watch you like that. You hardly let him get a word on, too caught up in your own excitement for the novels you placed in his hand, but he didn’t mind. He preferred to listen to you anyway. Your voice had a calming presence about it; soothing and gentle, loving and joyous. If it weren’t for the clock hanging on the wall above your head, he might have sat there all night with you.

“We should probably head over,” he pointed out reluctantly, gesturing to the clock as it approached six.

You frowned, following his gaze to see the time had slipped by quicker than you realized. As you began to clear off the table, throwing the scraps in the garbage and setting the mugs on the counter for Luciana, Bucky began to wonder if maybe you would have sat there all night with him, too. If only he could find the courage to ask.

***

Bucky removed the clip from the book, closed the back binding, and slumped back into the cushions. The room was still pretty quiet, everyone’s noses still down in their books as the soft strum of Simon & Garfunkel played from the speaker by the coffee table. He glanced over at you as you sat beside him, a little closer than usual, though he didn’t mind. Your hip brushed his every so often when you adjusted position. It was a kind of closeness that left him wanting more.

You were only halfway through your own book, but you could clearly sense him watching you because you slowly looked up in his direction, a pointed smile on your face.

“You were right,” he admitted, his voice a hushed whisper in effort not to disturb the other members. “Surprisingly deep considering it’s a children’s book for adults.”

“Hey maybe we need pictures on our pages, too,” you whispered back, teasing him with a nudged to his right shoulder. He laughed, leaning back comfortably against the couch as Tony’s eyes glared over in his direction from the top of his book. He pressed his lips together to keep quiet.

You snickered into Bucky’s shoulder, lips pressing against the sleeve of his jacket and he had never wanted to remove that layer more in his life; to actually feel the imprint of your mouth instead of just the press of your face, to feel the heat in your breath breathe through the thin layer of his t-shirt. He shivered.

“Alright kids,” you said aloud, setting your book on the table. “Times up for today.”

“Oh, come on, Y/n! I’ve only got one chapter left!” Clint whined, stretching out dramatically along the table he was laying across.

“Glad to hear it, Clint,” you smirked, hands planted firm on your hips. “Finish on your own time.”

A couple of ‘ooo’s rang out and it reminded Bucky of his days sitting behind a desk in class in grade school and a kid would get called up to the principal's office. Clint took it in stride though and seemed to bask in it, throwing up a pose in face of the chorus.

The crowd quickly dispersed after that, though a few of the older members lingered behind to update you on how far they’d gotten in their books. Bucky watched you from a distance as he started to move the couches back into place, mesmerized by the glimmer in your eye as you spoke to them, a soft hand resting on the crook of their arm, nodding along with a smile on your face – always so genuine in every interaction, in every bone in your body.

Bucky had practically finished arranging the entire room by the time you walked back inside. Your jaw dropped, wide eyes meeting his.

“You didn’t have to do all that by yourself!”

Bucky shrugged. “How long were you doing it on your own before I came along? Take the help when it’s offered, Y/n.”

You smiled at that. “Still. I appreciate it.”

“It’s really nothing,” Bucky said simply.

He hadn’t felt a drive like this is years. Not even before his final tour and the destruction that came with it. He hadn’t remembered what it felt like to want to lift even the smallest of burdens for someone else just to see the weight slip from their shoulders, just to see them smile. He found himself wanting to carry everything you had, even if it started with arranging the heavy furniture of the empty VA library.

You chewed on the edge of your lip as you watched him approach the door, your jacket in his hand. He had wanted to hold it open for you, to let you turn your back and slip your arms through the sleeves, but it just wasn’t something he could do with one hand, and instead, he placed it to hang over your forearm.

A longing for a world in which you met him before his body had been put through the shredder ached deep into his gut. It started to push a frown onto his lips, but then your voice broke through and he shook it away.

“Ready?” you asked, gesturing to the door and he nodded, following closely behind.

There was a sudden nervous energy in the air he didn’t expect, and for once, it wasn’t coming from him. He glanced over at you as you walked in line with him to find you fidgeting with the zipper of your jacket, hands wringing into the fabric, and hair falling out of place and down into your eyes. You exhaled a few tense breaths as Bucky opened the main door for you, following behind as you stepped out onto the side walk.

The two of you stood there for a minute, neither one making a move to leave. You kept glancing back at the VA, then to your watch, barely able to look in Bucky’s direction and he started to feel that familiar twist of anxiety in his stomach.

“Hey, are you oka—”

“Do you want to go for a walk?” you blurted out before he could finish, biting down quickly on your lip as if to stop yourself from saying more.

Bucky froze, confused. He glanced down at his watch. It would be dark soon. “Now?”

A flash of embarrassment quickly passed over your features and Bucky’s stomach dropped.

Was it possible that you just wanted to spend more time with him? That maybe you could crave his presence the same way he did yours?

“N-No, no, you’re right. It’s late. I’m sorry,” you muttered quickly, arms folding protectively over your chest. You kicked at a stone on the sidewalk, watching as it rolled over on its side. “I should, uh, I should head home then. I’ll see you later, Bucky.”

“There’s a park nearby,” Bucky offered before you could turn away. You lifted your head.

“Yeah?” A cautious smile hung on your lips as you stepped closer to him.

Bucky nodded, trying to push away the shaking in his hand. “Yeah, come on.”

A couple minutes passed by in silence as you walked along his side. Every so often, your knuckles would brush up against his hand, a nervous laughter between you as you pulled away. It happened so quickly each time, he never had a chance to respond. Even if he did, he wasn’t sure he would have had the courage to twist his fingers into yours, hold your hand tight to his own, feel the warmth of your palm and guide you along the cobblestones to the small space of greenery amongst brick and steel and concrete.

“I hope you don’t mind me keeping you out late,” you said slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you waited at the intersection to cross the street.

“Not at all,” Bucky replied sincerely, offering you a small smile in hopes to ease your nervousness. Part of him wished he said more, maybe told you that spending time with you was the best part of his day or that you were the reason he was getting out of bed most mornings, but it was too big of an admission. It could scare you away and that was the last thing he wanted. Before he had a chance to decide, the light turned and you stepped out onto the street. Bucky followed closely behind.

The entrance to the park was bordered with a dark metal fence, an arch way carrying over the brick walkway decorated with flowers and vines. You crossed underneath, pausing to stare up the twisting of the leaved through the pattern in the arch, a delicate finger reaching out to touch the tip of a petal. You looked back at Bucky with a smile twice as wide on your face and he hung his head, a breath of a laugh in his chest.

The park was mostly empty for a Sunday evening. The last remaining streams of sunlight lit up the greenery, touching over the flowers and the reflecting into the pond at the center where a family of ducks were waddling along the edge. You seemed to like that, watching how the babies followed the mama along the rim of the water. Bucky turned to his right to find you imitating their walk, chasing after them until they stepped into the water.

Meanwhile, Bucky found a bench sitting under an old oak tree. Its branches hung draped over the bench enough to provide a shadow from the closing sun. It faced the west side of the park, where the sun was setting just over the tops of the buildings and illuminating the sky in brilliant shades of golden orange and vibrant reds.

“You want to sit for a bit?” Bucky asked, gesturing to the bench. His feet were a little tired from walking through Brooklyn all day with the library, the VA, and now this. It was more than he usually did these days – not that he minded. He’d happily allow his legs to be a little sore if it meant more time with you. He’d walk through busy streets for miles if it was you he was walking towards.

You plopped down on the bench on his right, sinking into the old wood. You glanced over at him, hiding behind a strand of hair that had fallen down into your face.

“Thanks for amusing me.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, chuckling to himself. “You act like I don’t want to be here.”

“I know, I know,” you laughed, swinging your feet off the side of the bench. “It’s just... and I hope this isn’t a strange thing to say but... I just like spending time with you. Wanted a little more of it today, I suppose.”

Bucky swallowed, his throat feeling suddenly very dry. His heart stammered a bit inside his chest, butterflies causing chaos in his stomach, but it didn’t make him want to run. He felt no drive to escape, to push those sensations so far out of reach he turned back to the numbed and empty version of himself he’d been occupied by for months before he met you. They were frightening feelings, yes, but they were pleasant ones, ones he welcomed and invited inside.

“You can have as much of my time as you want,” Bucky said as the words fell off his tongue. No filter, no second guessing. No chance to bite his tongue. You looked up at him with a kind of hope in your eyes that made his cheeks start to hurt from how much he was smiling.

You settled back in on the bench, gazing up at the sunset as it lowered behind the buildings. Brush strokes of softer tones blended into the fading blues in the sky, giving way to the moon and stars as they emerged beyond the clouds.

He glanced down at your hand as it rested on the bench by your thigh. There was hardly even a breath of air between his pinky to yours. You were so close; it would only take one instant of courage to bar the space between you.

Be brave, Barnes.

Testing the waters, Bucky allowed the very edge of his fingers to brush over your knuckles. Your skin was softer than he’d remembered from that first handshake in the VA nearly a month earlier. He felt your breath hitch like a jolt of electricity had rushed though you, though you didn’t tear your eyes away from the sunset. Your thumb ran a tender line along his hand as you turned your palm up. Bucky swallowed.

He slipped his hand into yours, curling his fingers to the space between your own, and for a moment he just let himself feel.

He felt for the slight give in your hand, the twitch in your movements as you settled in against him. He felt the gentle sway of your thumb as it painted a line along his, comforting sweeps like you were reminding him you were there. He felt the chill in your skin – cold hands, like he remembered from before – and the heat of his own.

Then, your head on his shoulder. Your legs crossed towards him as you leaned in closer and he made no efforts to move. A gesture like that would have thrown him in a tailspin before he met you; to be this close to someone, to anyone, to sit in the vulnerability of allowing someone to know and feel him.

He looked back up at the sunset. It had nearly dipped below the horizon now; only a few glimpses of color remaining in the sky and the shine of the lamppost just a few feet away.

You sighed in a contented hum, circling your free hand to rest on the inside of his bicep, hooked around his arm. You held him against you like a teddy bear, just wanting to feel more of him.

It was a strange sensation, he thought; this new urge to want to give you as much as his body could offer.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you

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i-write-newsies · 3 years ago

Text

A/N:

(Y/N) - Your Name

(L/N) - Last Name

(N/N) - Nickname

(H/C) - Hair Color

(D/N) - DEEZ NUTS!! /j Deadname

(E/C) - Eye Color

(H/L) - Hair Length

(Y/A) - Your Age

Ships Included:

- Jack x Davey

- Spot x Race

- Finch x Smalls (Platonic)

- Albert x Elmer

-Katherine x Sarah

- Spot x Reader (Brotherly Platonic)

- Race x Reader (Brotherly Platonic)

Summary:

You have always dreamed of living in the world of your favorite characters, to escape from whatever rotten life you have and make friends with the people you love. One day, fate decides to give you a chance. But when you're not prepared to be rushed into that universe, it becomes a roller coaster of balancing good and bad emotions and events.

Good luck, Reader!

!!TW!!

~ SELF HARM

~ TRANSPHOBIA

~ MAJOR INJURY

~ ABUSE

~ ARGUING

(Y/N) POV:

I'm (Y/N) (L/N). I'm (Y/A) with (E/C) eyes and (H/L) (H/C) hair. At least it used to be (H/L). I cut it all off today. I can tell my mom just found out because of the loud cursing and stomping. "GODDAMMIT, (D/N)!!" she yells. What scares me the most about this situation is the fact that I'm kinda used to this. I hear her coming up the stairs to my room and rush to the door and lock it. As expected, the door handle starts rattling violently, "(D/N) YOU LET ME IN RIGHT NOW, YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SH!T!" She starts banging on the door, stressing the lock.

I sigh. Today was one of the worse days. I slip on my noise-canceling headphones and press play on my musicals playlist, consisting of:

- Waving Through A Window

- On My Own

- A Little Fall Of Rain

- Angel of Music

and of course...

The entire Newsies soundtrack.

By the time I get to 'Seize the Day', it's twilight outside. I lift one of my headphones to check if my mom is gone. I hear nothing. I look out the window and don't see her car. Perfect.

Unplugging my headphones and letting the music play, I walk over to my dresser, open it up, and reach deep in the back. Aha!

I pull out some bandages (A/N: DO NOT ACTUALLY BIND LIKE THIS OK BYE). I take off my shirt and try not to look in my mirror, fearing what sort of feminine body I may see. I start wrapping my chest to the point that it gets a little hard to breathe. This kinda hurts, but my dysphoria is stronger than my need for comfort and, let's be honest, safety.

Slipping my shirt back on, I look into the mirror and smile, satisfied with my flat chest and somewhat choppy short, (H/C) hair. I jump onto my bed and plug my headphones back into my phone which is now playing Santa Fe. Santa Fe honestly makes me think. I'm only, what, (Y/A)? And I still go through all this BS. I need out. Somewhere my mom can't tell me I'm female. Somewhere like...Newsies. I mean, Race is canonically trans, right? Not to mention all of them are definitely fruity. They'd accept me. The fresh, bandaged cuts on my arms are the only things keeping me in reality right now

As the song ends, I realize that I've been crying. God, why am I stuck in this wretched place? The question as well as thoughts of Newsies reverberates in my skull, a sort of white noise until I fall into a much-needed sleep.

"Aye, kid! Watcha doin sleepin on the street?"

"Especially in a place this..."

Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω

Jack POV:

I yawn, rubbing sleep from my eyes as the circulation bell drones on an' on. I let my eyes adjust to the view of the sunrise from my penthouse in the sky.

As I try to get up to get ready, a pair of arms drag me back down. "Jackieeee" a half-awake Davey groans, "come back down, it's freezing up here." "Dave, we gotta get to work. The boys can always count on me being at the gates early, so if you don't get up, I'm leaving you behind." This seems to wake him up a little more, "Alright, alright fine." he shivers as he gets up. I throw him his top shirt and vest and he desperately claws them on to gain warmth. Carefully, we climb down the ladder.

"What'd I tell ya, Dave? Even in the middle of summer, the night's always freezing." Davey rolls his eyes and does a little shiver "I know, Jackie, now c'mere and warm me up" I grin and move in closer, holding his hand, as we start walking to the gates. "Still not warm enough!" Davey said in a singsong-ish voice. I sigh and feign annoyance, leaning in to give a short but sweet peck on the lips. I think he's satisfied now. We're not usually this lovey-dovey, but I think we're both touch starved and subtly begging for a hug.

Davey, being the amazing boyfriend he is, stops by Jacobis to get us some breakfast. "Dave, you really don't hafta-" "I insist, Jack. After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day," he says in an almost snobbish voice. I give him a small smile. That's my smartass Dave.

As we get to the gates, I notice a small figure leaned up against it. By now, the sun has come up some more over Manhattan 'n Dave 'n I don't have to walk as close to warm ourselves up. The figure seems to be sleeping, a newsies cap over their eyes. I think it's a kid. Maybe a new newsie looking for work?

I crouch down in front of him lift his hat, and start tapping his shoulder, "Aye, kid! Watcha doin sleepin on the street?" "Especially in a place this..." Davey notes. The kid seems to wake with a start. He rubs his eyes, and I chuckle a little "Whatsa matter? Ya look like youse seen a ghost." He doesn't seem to find this funny and repeatedly switches from looking at me then Davey with some confusion and shock in his eyes.

"I um-" he stutters over his words, "Aye, aye, kid, calm down, you ain't in trouble or nuttin." He takes a few deep breaths. "Okay... I'm (Y/N). I'm just freaking out because This isn't where I fell asleep, and- and I just- feel like I know you..." "Well, (Y/N) it sounds like you're one of da Newsies now," I say with a grin, "Now, we gots ta give you a nickname, we rarely eva call someone by their real name, 'cept Dave 'n Albert of course," The kid stays silent, clearly still shocked from waking up in a foreign place. "I feel like I know you.." he says, barely discernible. "Maybe ya do, maybe ya don't, Dave here's the only one good with faces." The kid looks up at Davey, who seems deep in thought, "(N/N)" he exclaims, "Ah, sorry, what I meant was your nickname should be (N/N)!" "I like it! But why (N/N) exactly?" I question, "Well, *insert reason why here*" "Well ain't you a clever boy, Dave!" I say, ruffling his hair. Davey shies away, "Jack! Now I have to fix my hair!" he complains, "Sorry, sorry." Davey then leaves to fix his hair in front of a shop window nearby, leaving me and (N/N) alone.

(N/N) seems to want to say something, but as soon as he opens his mouth, he shuts it just as quickly. I try to fill the awkward silence, "So, what's wit' da bandages, kiddo?" He freezes, "Nothing, just a ploy to get people to buy more papes..." he trails off. I have a feelin' he's not tellin' the truth, but I go along with it anyway, "Ha! What an idea, I wonder how I neva thought a' that before." he smiles, seeming satisfied with the praise. Davey returns from the shop window, "Alright! Ready to start the day?" (N/N) nods, and so do I.

Newsies start gathering, some glancing at (N/N) and some anxiously peering through the gates. I look at the headline for today: New Newsie Price! "Aye, Dave, you seein' this shit?" "Language- and yeah... what in the world was runnin' through Pulitzer's head when he thought of this??" I look at (N/N), whose mouth is a thin, pale line but whose (E/C) eyes are glinting with determination. "Heh, kid, what's that look for?" He looks at me, a little startled, but quickly regains that same tough expression, "I have a feeling that this ain't some silly little joke. And I'm worried 'bout the kids that may get hurt in the crossfire." I laugh, "Youse just bein dramatic! Surely, they wouldn't be as dumb as to underpay their own employees." I walk over to Weasel and slap down a penny "100 papes please!" "That's gonna be dime, Kelly."

My heart almost stops, and it takes all my strength not to break down in front of the boys. I fake a laugh, "Surely you're joking." "100 papes costs a dime, take a look at the headline." I hit the money box out of anger, "Then we'll just take our business to Brooklyn." Someone pipes up, "The same thing's happenin' there." "Then we'll go to Rushing!" Specs jogs over, seemingly out of breath, "I'll save ya the walk; it's the same everywhere."

Fuck.

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Y/N POV:

A sharp pain in my chest temporarily distracts me from the situation at hand. Ah. I almost forgot. I still have to bind. This sucks. I feel a pair of eyes on me and turn just in time to see Racetrack Higgins avert his eyes. I give him a confused look and turn back to Jack singing "The World Will Know" I forget all about his weird staring and get back into the determined beat from before.

Soon, the newsies and I make our way to Jacobis for some...water I guess? I do happen to have some extra money in my pocket so I think I can treat all the boys to some seltzer. I sit down on a hard wooden chair in a slouch. The room is buzzing with excited talk of the strike. I give a small, sad smile. These boys have no idea what they're getting themselves into. Crutchie sits next to me serving a wide smile just as Jacobi enters with a tray full of waters, "And here's one for you, and for you, and for you- who's the big spender that ordered everyone seltzer?" shyly, I raise my hand, "That's me, sir." "You know these cost a quarter each, right?" I pull out a handful of quarters with a cheeky smile "and I got more where that came from." The boys go wild, "Where did ya get all that money, kid??" Davey, being the concerned mom, asks "Please tell me you didn't steal that." I shake my head, "I used to live comfortably, but my mom kicked me out for...reasons." my grin falters for a second, but no one seems to notice.

"Well!" Jack stands on a table, "Here's to the strike! And, of course, (N/N)" He gestures towards me with a wink as everyone cheers. As Katherine enters, I start to zone out and stare at a speck of dust on the ground. After all, I know the plot all too well. I perk up, though, as soon as Jack asks who's goin' to Brooklyn. My hand shoots up, "I nominate me and Race!" I exclaim. I look over at Race, who's staring at me, blushing and jaw dropped a little. I grin at him and look back at Jack, who's a little shocked. "A-alright! Me and Dave'll take the Bronx, I guess."

*Timeskip to after the restaurant scene*

I walk down the Manhatten alleys blindly, no clue where I'm going, when I hear someone come up behind me. "Hey, (N/N)! It's me, Race." I smile weakly, "Oh, hey." "I always sell my papes at Sheepshead in Brooklyn, so I know where to go."

It's almost completely silent except for the clicking of our shoes on the paved roads. "So... how'd ya get here as a Newsie, (N/N)?" "Well, Jack 'n Davey found me sleepin' on the street just this mornin'" He laughs, "Wow! So you got used to the Newsie life real quick!" "Yeah, I did.." I let out a small chuckle as well. Race pulls out a cigar and clamps it between his lips and goes to light it but hesitates. "Uh- Wanna cigar?" "Wow, Racetrack Higgins giving me one of his own cigars? I'm flattered!" I joke, "But, yeah, I need smoke." He digs into his pocket and hands me another cigar, "You eva' smoked before?" he stares at me as I put the cigar in between my lips. I grin sheepishly, "No." "Okay, maybe we should stop for a second. Coughing while walking ain't the most fun thing in the woild."

We lean up against a wall as Race lights first his, then my cigar. I inhale and immediately spiral into a coughing fit. Race smacks my back, "You good, (N/N)? I ain't neva' seen a fella cough that hard on the first puff." I roll my tear-filled eyes and continue coughing.

Once my coughing fit subsides, I feel a wave of relaxation. "God I should do this more often." I groan, Race grins, "Yeah, once you get past the whole blowin'-your-brains-out part of smokin', it's real nice. Anyway, shall we continue?" he gestures to the streets ahead. I nod my head and take another puff, "Yeah, it's gettin' kinda late and we do NOT wanna wake up the Spot Conlon." Race nods in agreement and we hurry along. Even though I know Spot is kind of a softie, that doesn't stop me from being intimidated by his prowess.

We reach the Brooklyn lodging just as Race's cigar burned out. Race takes a deep breath and gives three solid knocks on the door. A kid younger than me answers the door, "State ya business" "I'm here to let Conlon know about some very important news." The kid squints his eyes but responds "I'll ask him if he's willing to meet with anyone right now. Who should I tell him is askin'?" "Race. Higgins." He says somewhat awkwardly.

The kid closes the door. Race and I stand quietly waiting for the OK to see Spot. Suddenly the door swings open to reveal Spot. "Ra-" he notices me and coughs, "I mean- Higgins, would you like to step in to discuss the important news?" I almost laugh at the way he went from totally in love to distinguished gentleman. I shoo them away, holding in laughter, "don't worry, I'll wait out here and give you lovebirds some space." (A/N: or should I say sprace) I see them both go tomato red.

I sigh as they head inside. I take a drag from the cigar and start thinking. How did I end up in the newsies universe and act this calm about it? This feels so surreal. But I want to stay here forever. Far away from my sh!tty mom and all my responsibilities.

Lost in my own head, I barely notice as Racetrack storms out of the lodging, clearly pissed. "C'mon (N/N), we're leaving." he grabs my hand and angrily powerwalks to the next street over. Once we're there, he lets go of my hand and sighs harshly, walking slow. "I assume it didn't go well?" I ask, already knowing the answer. "Not. Well." "Wanna talk about it?" he shakes his head and starts walking "No, thanks. I think we's better get to bed before Jack gets worried." he stops. "Do you have a place to sleep?" I look down, "Not really..." "Well!" he grabs my hand again with a big grin, "Looks like youse bunkin' wit' me." I start to protest, but realize it'd get me nowhere with this stubborn SOB, so I let myself get dragged along. Oh, well. I might as well get rest for the strike tomorrow, goodness knows I need it.

As I settle down into the rough sheets, the gentle snoring rocks me to sleep with thoughts of the strike. One thought flashes through my mind before I fall asleep; God help us all.

I wake up to someone poking my face. My eyes flutter open and I almost fall off the bunk at the sight of Race's face right in front of mine. "JESUS CHRIST, RACE, YOU SCARED THE SH!T OUTTA ME!" He backs off, putting his hands up in surrender, "Sorry, sorry, it's just that Jack said you had to be up and out in 10 minutes so we can have an organized strike or whateva'" Race rolls his eyes, "I'm startin' ta think that Davey's rubbin' off on 'im a lil' too much."

I groan, tempted to slide back under the covers, but get up anyway. I slept with my clothes on so I don't have to do anything about that. As I look into an old, rusted mirror and comb my fingers through my now tangled hair, I feel another sharp pain in my chest, accompanied by a dull throbbing. I really should have taken off the bandages while I slept, but now it's too late. I take one last look in the mirror and, ignoring my eyebags, quickly head out the door to join the others. As I get to the gate, everyone's waiting with anticipation, faces grim but hopeful.

Everything happens in a blur. One moment we're striking, and the next we're beaten into a pulp. I manage to soak a Delancey in the eye when suddenly a familiar sharp pain fills my chest and wince, faltering. Morris takes this as an opportunity to knee me in the stomach, forcing me to the ground, where their take turns kicking my chest and body with those damn steel-toed boots of theirs until my clothes are torn and the cuts on my arms reopen. Suddenly, there's a small crack as my body swells up with pain and the taste of metal enters my mouth. I let out a blood-curdling scream as the pain registers in my brain. In my blurred vision, I see the Delancey's walk away, ready to torture their next victim; Crutchie.

I try to get up and reach out, try to scream at them not to hurt him, but all I can do is weakly move my hand in their direction and spit out blood. Suddenly, a small but rough hand reaches out and drags me into an alley. "Dammit, (N/N) what were you thinking?! Fighting in a gawddamn binder, and a makeshift one, no less!" "R-..Race..?" "Not now, (N/N) I have ta get youse to safety foist." I watch as he chews on his nails in thought, "Dammit! The only way back to tha lodge is through the Delancey's again!" He sighs. "Brooklyn it is..." He gingerly picks me up and carries me as fast as possible to Spot's turf.

Setting my feet on the ground and propping me up against him, he bangs on the door. "Spot!" Please! This is serious, I need your help!" I can hear the tears in his voice. Spot flings open the door, obviously very concerned. He's confused for a second, then looks at me and his eyes go wide. "GET THE MED KIT AND A COT OPEN, WESE GOT SOMETHING HORRIBLE THAT'S HAPPENED" he yells behind him. Race, now more calmed down, takes me in his arms again, but seems to refuse to look at Spot, who looks away as well, but more in shame.

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Race POV:

I watch as some of the Brooklyn newsies take (N/N) and lay him on a cot, anger surging through my veins. I take a deep breath "I'll take care of him. You guys don't have to worry about it." As they leave the room, I look down at (N/N) and can't help but feel guilty. Like this is my fault. I only got away with a black eye, but he got all this?

I regain my composure and start by taking (N/N) shirt off. I can already see the bruises starting to form and cringe. I take off his binding bandages and see his chest expand immediately. Poor kid. He must have been hurting in more way that just one. I take the gauze from the wooden box and gently wrap his torso with it. Maneuvering around his arms, I notice something. The bandages on him arms. When he was wearing them before, Jack said it was a marketing ploy, but now I see red bleeding through the white gauze.

I unwrap (N/N)'s arms and gasp. Hundreds of tiny, but deep cuts litter his forearms and wrists. F#ck. He was hurting so much more than I could have ever known. I wrap them with fresh gauze and treat the rest of his wounds, stepping back to admire my handiwork. That's when I start to cry. Full-on tears falling, face in hands crocodile tears. I turn my head with a start to see Spot, standing over me with a hand on my shoulder, looking apologetic "I'm so sorry..." Suddenly this sadness turns to rage. I grab him by the shirt collar and drag him outside to an empty alleyway. "SORRY?? SORRY, MY 4SS! (N/N) AND SO MANY OTHER 'HATTEN NEWSIES ALMOST DIED OUT THERE BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T WANT TO JOIN UNTIL YOU KNEW WE WOULDN'T "CAVE" WELL, WE DIDN'T CAVE, AND LOOK WHAT F#CKING HAPPENED! AND DONT YOU SAY SORRY TO ME AND EXPECT ME TO FORGIVE YOU JUST BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, THAT'S FOR CROW TO DECIDE." Spot seemed silent at first, but now I could see his anger building up; "WADDAYA THINK WOULD O' HAPPENED TO MY BOYS, HUH?? I WANTED TO WAIT TO SEE IF WE WOULD BE THE ONLY ONES FIGHTIN IN THIS BATTLE AGAINST PULITZER."

I open my mouth then close it. He has a fair point, but doesn't he trust me and the udda newsies not to bail in their hour of need? I sigh, pinching my nose. "I'm sorry Spot, I just-... I just wish you trusted me a bit more..." I look up at him to see tears in his eyes. "OH, SPOT HONEY, ITS OKAY, I'M NOT MAD, DON'T CRY, DON'T CRY" I shush him, pulling his head into my chest, which isn't tough considering his height.

As he lets go, the adrenaline rush from today dies down. God, I'm so tired. My knees nearly buckle and Spot notices, "Aye, aye! Tony, you doin' okay?" I nod at him, but the bags under my eyes are making them droop, "Race, honey, you need to get some sleep, okay?" I shake my head but soon fall into Spot's arms as my legs give way. "Fine..." I mumble. I can feel him grinning, "Good, we gots an extra bed for youse to sleep in." I sigh, grateful. I can feel Spot picking me up, the rhythm of his boots tapping along the ground, a pause and shift as he opens the lodging door and kicks it closed behind him as I fall asleep.

I wake up in a cold sweat. (N/N). I need to see (N/N). I need to check if he's okay. I climb out of the bed Spot laid me in and let my eyes adjust to the dark before maneuvering around all the other sleeping kids. I make my way as quietly as possible to where (N/N) is resting. I crouch down and take his hand in mine. How could I let this happen? And how did I not notice his suffering? I press the back of his hand to my forehead, closing my eyes. My body is so tired right now, but my mind is too tortured with guilt to let me sleep.

By the time my thoughts finally leave me alone, the sun is rising in the sky. I'm finally drifting when- "Race?" I turn my head to the voice, "Oh, jesus, you look horrible!" Spot exclaims, "did you even get any sleep last night?" I shrug, to be fair, I lost count of the hours. Spot sighs, "Race...go sleep. At least for a few more hours. I can watch (N/N) if that makes you happy," I nod, rubbing my eyes. I stumble back to my bed amongst all the Brooklyn newsies and fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow.

My mind dreams of talkin' cigars and bloody bandages. I see Crow propped up against the wall, smokin' a cigar. "(N/N)! (N/N)! Oh my god, I'm so happy that you're okay!" (N/N) doesn't answer, I slowly starts walking towards him, "(N/N)...?" he starts laughing. Softly at first then roaring, and the laughing turns into a heavy coughing fit. As (N/N) coughs, red smoke pours out of his lungs and clouds my vision. I swipe at the air, trying to brush away the fog, "(N/N)?? (N/N), where did you go?!" suddenly, the smoke clears and I see (N/N) bruised, damaged, bleeding body at my feet, I gasp and step back. (N/N) slowly turns to face me, and in a painful, teary, almost sickly whisper asks, "Why did you let this happen?" Tears start spilling down my face, "I- I didn't me-" "You did this to me Race. Race. Race. Race! Race! RACE! RACE!--

Spot POV:

--RACE WAKE UP!" He wakes up with a gasp. He looks around wildly, tears dripping from his chin. I've never seen him like this. He must care for him like a brudda. To be honest, I'm worried as well, not only about (N/N) but now that we know 'Hatten isn't gonna back down and we join the fight, what's gonna happen to the newsies in general? Kids could get hoit. Bad.

"Spot?" Race starts sobbing, clinging to my shirt fabric, "Please...tell me it'll be okay..." I can't. Race, I don't know if it will. I almost start sobbing on the Spot ( A/N: heh...), but I hold my composure and smile at him, "It'll be okay, Tony...we're all gonna be fine" He seems to believe this, at least a little bit. "Now, don't you gotta meet up wit' da udda newsies?" He retracts his head from my chest, eyes wide. In a nasal voice, he goes "AW SHOOT, I 'MOST FORGOT" I watch him with a small smile as he rushes to get dressed like the goof he is. God, I love 'im.

Race POV:

Silence. I got there too early. Fuck. I can't just be alone with my thoughts, but at least I have some extra money to... I don't know? I walk up to the bar, where the owner of Jacobi's is cleaning out glasses. I sigh and sit down, "Got anything to help forget? At least for a little while...?"

"Ain't you a little too young for that, kid?" I give him a look and push my money over the counter to him. He quietly collects it, "So what can I get ya?" I'm silent for a bit "Fireball." I say with some demand in my voice. He disappears behind the counter and comes back with some shot glasses and a Fireball bottle, pouring it out into the glasses as I watch. I notice as he sighs, "Feel betta, kid." Can't promise that.

I pick up a shot glass, watching as the orange liquid spins around in it. I take in a breath of spicy cinnamon before letting the liquid slip down my throat, leaving a trail of a burning sensation. Soon, one turns into another, and another, and another and before I could comprehend it, the room starts to spin and blur. Eventually, the room fills with newsies, mumblin' 'bout how crappy the strike went. I do my very best to fit in and not act drunk, but the time zooms by and I find myself singin' 'bout bein' the king o' new york. At some point in the blurry memory, Katherine suggests getting drunk and I throw my hands up and cheer. More free Fireball! But then she clarifies that it was a metaphor, to which I am very disappointed.

The rest whizzes past me and soon I'm stumblin' my way to Brooklyn. I knock heavily on the lodging door, then lean on it. Unexpectedly, the door opens and I'm left to fall flat on my face at the feet of my boyfriend, Spot Conlon. "Race! Darlin', you okay? Youse fell flat on ya face!" He extends a hand that I receive and pulls me up. I giggle, "Ahhhh, my Spotty! Always carin' 'bout uddas. Pshht! Yeah, I'm fiiiine." I flop my hand down to wave off his concern. He wrinkles his nose, "You reek of cinnamon....and alcohol." He widens his eyes and I let out anudda giggle, "Race! Tell me you didn't jus' get drunk!" he whines, I grin, "Okey, 'you didn't jus' get drunk'" I imitate him in a deep voice and he sighs, "Jesus Christ, Racer.." he grabs my hand pulls me inside, eventually laying me on a bed, face red with a giggling fit. "Goodnight, my liege," I giggle some more, "and you my Prince," he gives a small smile before covering me with a blanket. I fall asleep before it's up over my shoulders.

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I wake up with my head feeling like it's going to explode.

Fuck Life.

I groan and sit up. "Mornin' Sleepin' Beauty" Spot smirks and hands me a cup of water, "Shut the fuck up" I whine and grab the glass, "Ooh feelin' feisty today, huh?" I shoot him a look that could rot a squash with one gaze. He holds up his hands in defense, "Alright, alright, my bad," He shrugs. I sigh and take a sip of water, which turns into me chugging the whole thing. "You betta get ova this hangover fast, hon" I groan, not ready to do anything at all today, "We gots the meetin' wit' Jack."

End my life.

"No, I don't think I will," "fuuuuck did I say that out loud?" I let out a small wail, and Spot chuckles a little, though you can tell there's somethin' on his mind still, "Yeah, ya did sweetheart." I grumble something incomprehensible and look down, red. He smiles, "Get dressed and drink as much water as possible, okay? We can't have you hungover for the big meeting, right?" I nod...which causes my head to hurt. Ow.

I sigh and decide to take my sweet time getting dressed. This sucks. "Spotty!" I call, then cringe after a new wave of pain hits, he pokes his head through the door "Yeah?". "I don't have the energy to deal wit' all dese gawddamn bandages. Help me?" He blushes a bit but agrees to help me bind. All I focus on is not hurting my head again. Spot ties the bandages and stands back to admire his handiwork but quickly notices my cringin'. "Do you want somethin' cold?" he asks gently, I nod as gingerly as possible.

*Timeskip to after the newsies meet n greet bcuz I'm power-finishing this at 12am and my mental health is steadily declining*

My hand shakes as I bring a fresh, unlit cigar to my lips.

Jack. That sellout, that traitor.

A sharp pain knocks me out of my angry thoughts. Ah. I burned myself.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, "Racer.." says a gentle voice, "You okay? that's your 3rd cigar in the past 2 hours or so." I look up to see Finch leaning over me as I sit on the ground, a concerned look on his face, "You're gonna run out all too soon" I give a bitter laugh, "Yeah, I guess I will." Finch can see that there's not much he can do to help me. He gives a weak smile and turns to walk away.

I see Davey run off somewhere. I wonder where they're going? I sigh and turn my head back down to the ground. Who cares? Without a leader, the strike'll just fall apart and Pulitzer'll win. Who was I kidding when I bragged abt being da "King o' New York"? I'm just some nobody kid without a nickel to my name. The bigger guys always win, so what's with me tryin'?

Jack POV:

I can't let any more kids get in this much danger. I visited (N/N) today. I found out about all his... injuries, as well as whatever he was born as. He's been through so much before all this, he doesn't deserve it.

It's my fault for being so ignorant. For not noticing anything was goin' on. My fault for inciting this stupid strike. For getting all these kids hoit. and Crutchie...poor Crutchie, locked up in that godawful place. I know he ain't helpless, 'e's a cheeky little bastard, I'll give him that, but the Refuge breaks down even the biggest of smiles and smothers the brightest of people. I will never forget that hell I went through. I went in a cheeky fightin' kid with a deep, strong flame, and came out with the embers barely glowing. It took years just to spark it up again. I'm terrified as to what'll happen to him.

I lean over the railing of my penthouse, not even noticing as it shakes and squeaks, making way for a young boy a little younger den me. "-Jack! JACK!" "Jesus Christ, yeah??? Oh, it's you, Dave..." I look away shamefully, he's probably here to chew me out and tell me we're done and gone. "What the hell was that?" I wince, I knew it. "Waddya mean 'what the hell was that?'?" "You know what I mean, JACK KELLY." I'm fucked. "YOU BETRAYED US FOR MONEY?!" "I WOULDN'T HAVE FELT PRESSURED TO IF I WADN'T DEALIN' WIT' A FLAKER!" Davey gives a bitter laugh and balls up the front of my shirt in his fist, tugging me towards him. "Ohoho! And if I wasn't your 'best friend' you'd be lookin' at me through one swollen eye!" "Oh, yeah? Well, don't let that stop ya, huh? Gimme your best shot!" something soft roughly pressing against my lips. The only thought at the moment is; 'Well, this is new... and passionate, 'specially from Dave' there's a heavy, awkward silence.

I back away from him, knocking over my drawings in the process. One specific drawing rolls out seemingly by fate. It taps on Davey's shoe and he looks down. His eyes widen a little as he reaches down to get it. "Is this.. the Refuge?" he puts a hand over his mouth, "weren't you stuck here once? Rats, cockroaches everywhere, 6 kids to a bunk? Holy fuc- I mean fudge." If the moment weren't this tense, I might've laughed. "Jack..." I feel a hand on my shoulder. "You don't have to tell me if you're not ready." I shake my head and he drops his arm understandingly. "Either way, we could use this. Heck..." Davey seems deep in thought before his face lights up, "We could make our own newspaper!" I look at him in disbelief, he notices, and speaks again "think about it, Jackie! Kath's a real talented writer! This art could change the perspective of hundreds! We could write to tell all the workin' boys to go on Strike tomorra'! And we could expose Snyder in the process!" Hey, that's not too bad..."But, Dave, how're we gonna print it?" His face falls, "I didn't think about it...we're banned from every printin' press in New York.."

Oh no. Ohhh no. "No. Noooo." I whine, Davey chuckles, amused "what?" "I know a printin' press that no one would ever think of!" Davey grins, "Then what are we waitin' for?" He puts my drawing back into the case, and slings it over his shoulder, getting ready to climb down. Suddenly, a thought strikes me, "Wait-" "Yeah?" "Dave- what are we exactly? Like I know how we act to each other n' everything, but we've never really said out loud what we are..." Davey giggles, "Jackie-" "No! Tell me right now, are we... in love? Boyfriends, I guess?? Or am I just something for your own experimentation?"

He cups my face in his hands, "Jackie..." he kisses my nose, "Of course I love you! And yes! We are in love! Dating! Boyfriends! Whichever way you want to define us!" Soon we're both grinning ear-to-ear and blushing. "Now!" he exclaims, hopping up, clearly on a high from the whole kiss and convo, "Let's get to it!" I laugh and stand up as well, following my over-enthusiastic boyfriend down the ladder. As Davey said; Let's get to it!

(Y/N) POV:

'My head hurts...' I think groggily. I try to open my eyes, but my vision is blurred and wonky. I sit up. Nevermind. Everything hurts. As my vision starts to clear, I see a very tired Spot Conlon sitting in a chair in the corner of whatever room I'm in rubbing sleep from his eyes. He fixates his eyes on me for a second, and I can see the sleepiness and confusion in his eyes turn into shock and joy. "(N/N)! Ohmygod! I'm so glad you'se awake!" I can see him go to wrap me in a bear hug before holdin' himself back after he remembers all my injuries. Wait. My injuries. "Does this mean you know about...?" I vaguely gesture to my arms and Spot nods sadly, "And..." I cringe and gesture to my chest, now only lightly bound with medical tape, but tighter than needed for a typical injury. I smile to myself. That must've been Race. He's like a perfect older brother, not only thinkin' about my physical health, but also my mental well-being.

Spot notices the look on my face and sees me lookin' down at my chest, he chuckles, "Yeah, Race decided on that. He wanted you to feel as comfortable as possible while you heal." I start grinning even harder. Spot spoke up again "Don't forget that even boys born seen as boys don't have perfectly flat chests, so binding as tight as you did wasn't necessary or safe, for that matter." I give him a look, is Spot really trying to be the cis savior right now? He gives me a look right back, "What? I know what I'm talking about." He lifts his shirt up to reveal two scars on his chest. I gasp, "But you're only *insert years/months* younger/older than me! How did you even know that this was an option, as well, how did you do it?" He smirks, pulling his shirt back down, "Thought so. Anyway, I don't really know. I needed them off desperately and randomly thought of it. As for the how, Buttons is AMAZING with scissors and blades. Like, scary amazing." He shivers. I blink. Damn.

He gives a shy grin "Do I really pass that well?" I look at him enviously "Of course! But... how do you look so...masculine?" "Well, I tried my best to copy the behavior of other boys I saw. And the whole working out didn't hurt." I nod, taking a mental note. Behavior, got it. Can't promise sticking to a workout, though. Spot scoots closer, taking my hand in his, "But the most important thing to understand is- behavior, body type, and a powerful reputation doesn't define being a true boy. What does is what's in here-" he taps my head, "-and here." he points to my heart. Spot looks me in my eyes, "You could wear dresses, skirts, use a 'girly' name, hell, even go by she! and you'd still be a boy in my eyes." I feel my eyes water, and Spot opens his arms to me with a sincere look. I fall into his arms and cry tears of joy. Spot and Race are the older brothers I never had, helping me at every fork in the road of my transition.

(A/N: I noticed that a big issue in trans fanfics was that the cis person was always the one to condescendingly teaching the helpless trans kid how to bind properly. I decided to make both of your mentors trans, had them both know what they're talking about, and made sure that you weren't completely useless or clueless, only that you needed guidance seeing as (Y/N) is a trans kid with no former knowledge about his transition. As well, I kinda wanted this fic to be of help to any newcomer trans men. Anyway, on to the last of the story!)

"So how are your ribs feeling?" Spot asks after we both calm down, "A little sore, but pretty much moveable. Is it really this painful to bind? I mean, the past few weeks I had the binding stuff on was my first time." "It shouldn't, I mean, lookit Race. He seems energetic and flexible even when he's binding." I think he sees my insecure face because he speaks again, "What I mean to say is- if you have more experience binding, you'll know how to mix mental and physical comfort. Either way, what fucked up your ribs wasn't the binding, it was the Delancey's. Not saying the way you were binding wasn't bad and wouldn't have caused lasting damage, of course."

I see Spot have a flicker of thought behind his eyes, he pulls out an obviously stolen silver pocket watch with the initials H.A. engraved on it to check the time. "Almost time..." he mutters. I give him a suspicious look, "Almost time for what...?" he looks sheepishly at the ground, "Nnnnnothing." I let out a noise halfway between a snort and a scoff, "Uh huh." "Fine." he sighs, "All the newsies and workin' boys is comin' together today. We'se hopin' ta finish up this strike Once And For All."

"Let me guess, I shouldn't go because I'm still healing." He nods, "Spot!! I need to do my part in this strike! I can't miss the most important day of my life." he gives me a weird look, "You don't even know what the outcome'll be, plus I promised Race that you wouldn't get hurt." "Please, I've been bedridden for WEEKS. And I won't get hurt" I protest stubbornly, he sighs exasperatedly "FINE, but I'm gettin' you right outta there at the foist sign o' danger, okay?" "Okay!" I say, content with the compromise. "We should prolly get you up and used to legs again before the strike--" my stomach rumbles harder than Les when he sees the chocolate croissants in the Pastry Shop window, and that's seriously saying somethin', "--and something to eat, too."

Spot holds my hands as I get out of bed and basically learn to walk again with wobbly legs. You could just paint my back with spots and call me a baby deer. Once I get my legs to work with me, Spot leads me to a tin tub. I give him a 'seriously?' look, "What am I doin', goin' ta church?" he laughs sarcastically, "Ha, ha. (N/N), you haven't cleaned yourself since the last time you were conscious. I also need to refresh your bandages since those haven't been touched since Race changed them in the foist place." "Fiiiine" I growl.

Spot unwraps my arm and chest bandages, but when it comes to me taking off the rest of my clothes, he looks away (not even for my privacy, but just because he is highly repulsed to the idea of naked bodies) I add enough soap suds on top of the water to cover my body so he's comfortable.

He grabs some soap and lathers up my hair with it, soon rinsing it. He also lathers and rinses my face, removing the built-up dirt, grease, and sweat, which accumulated surprisingly quickly for only spending a month, or was it two, here. Spot brings out a small piece of scrap fabric and a bottle of some liquid, then gently grabs my arms. "This might burn a little," he said empathetically. He dampened the cloth with what I am assuming is disinfectant and started pressing it against my healing cuts. I tried to hold in my pain but let out a small hiss when the cloth reached the deeper cuts on the backs of my arms. Spot stopped temporarily, letting my arms adjust to the sting a little, before continuing. Once he's finished, he hands me the soap and leaves the room to let me bathe myself in peace and picks up my dirty clothes and old bandages. "Holler if you need anything!" he yells on his way out.

I create a lather in my hands and stand up so I can actually wash my body. The air is chilly compared to the bathwater, so I do my best to be quick as I let my soap hands travel gingerly over my body. I look down, and for the first time in a long time, I don't feel ashamed. Spot words echo in my mind as I smile softly; 'You could wear dresses, skirts, use a 'girly' name, hell, even go by she! and you'd still be a boy in my eyes.' I guess, for now, I'm confident in my masculinity.

I sit back down, enjoying the warmth, and rinse myself off. I step out of the bath and look at the grey-ish brown-ish water. Ew, was I really that dirty? As the cold air envelops me once more, I realize I don't have a towel. Or clothes. "Spot!" I call out, "Yeah?" I hear a faint voice, "I need a towel and some clothes!" I answer. There's quiet, then a series of rustling sounds that slowly get closer. The door opens a crack and I see a tan, muscular hand slide a pile of clothes and a towel in my direction. I smile gratefully, "Thanks, Spotty!" "Aye! Only Race can call me dat..." "Okay, fine."

I dry my hair as much as possible, before continuing to my body. There's not much actual rubbing rather than patting because of my injuries, so when I get my pants on and slip my button-down onto my shoulders, they get a little damp. "Spot?" I call out again, "Do you think you could help me with my bandages?" "'Course!" He casually picks up the chest bandages and binds it pretty much perfectly- Tight enough to make a difference in my chest size, but loose enough to let my ribs heal. Spot then starts re-bandaging my arms, "Can I ask you a question, Spot?" "Sure, (N/N)" he says nonchalantly, "Why is it you are repulsed by fully naked bodies, but you're perfectly casual and fine about helping me bind my chest when I'm half-naked?" he clears his throat as if he was ready to spin a whole story, "Well, Race used to live with me and we started trusting each other a lot more than when we first met. He trusted me enough to teach him the best way to bind, and he trusted me enough to feel comfy without a top on when around the house, so I'm kinda desensitized. But when it comes to people being naked or bein' overly suggestive, I just..don't like it. At all."

'Asexual,' I think, 'Knew it."

"Anyway, you ready to fight off the bulls and get our rights back, (N/N)?" He stands up and offers a hand to help me up, which I receive. I catch my reflection in the dirty bathwater. I can see crystal clear, that I am dapper, strong, and ready to kick some Delancey ass.

But first, Lunch.

Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω~Ω

I arrive at the strike on Spot's shoulders, hyped for the happy ending they all worked so hard for. Spot sets me down gently and scans the crowd for someone. It seems he found them because his face lights up. I see Race run over to us. "(N/N)! Oh my god, I'm so fuckin' glad that you're awake! Especially today of all days!" however, his enthusiasm is soon replaced with concern, "But is ya sure yer okay? You must've woken up just today, so are you feeling good? Yer injuries don't hurt too bad, you're not dizzy, hungry, thirsty?" "Calm down, Tony, I gave him a bath, changed his bandages, gave him food n' water, even a pep talk, so you don't need to worry!" Race takes a few deep breaths, "Okay, okay, yeah I'm fine. But that's great!" He engulfs me in a firm, but gentle hug. I look around the crowd and see some familiar faces, Katherine seems to have brought another girl with her, who I'm assuming is Sarah, Davey's sister. I see Albert and Elmer tightly holding each other's hands. I see Finch and Smalls exchanging jokes as a form of distraction. I look back at Race and Spot, who are being so romantic, it's almost gross. Almost.

The adrenaline still hasn't left me so when people start getting as excited as me, it just hypes me up even more. We look up at the window of Pulitzer's office and see Jack and a few others standing there, waving. I wave back vigorously. Not too long after, Jack, Davey, Pulitzer, and The Governer appear on a balcony, Jack at the front. "Newsies of New York City..." cue the pause for dramatic effect, "WE WON!!" The crowd of newsies roars with joy. I watch as Crutchie limps out and beats Snyder's ass as the abuser is dragged away, I don't understand why so many people see him as an angel, it's obvious that he's a cheeky lil' rat bastard.

Suddenly, it's like everything is in slow motion. I look around once more and see Katherine and Sarah kissing, same with Albert and Elmer, Finch and Smalls are hugging each other tightly. I look back up at the balcony and see Davey and Jack gettin' it ON. I look once again to Spot and Race, who just finished kissing. Spot reaches down and hoists me onto his shoulders to cheer. And as I take in this momentous victory one sense at a time, I realize in a moment of pure bliss-

I finally found my true family.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Word Count: 8190

(A/N):

This took VERY LONG (approx. one month, I just finished after working from 9 pm to 5 am) I know it was supposed to be a simple one-shot, but since there was no one to help narrow down and shorten the plot for me, I got carried away. I am, however, pleased with the length of it. This may be the longest fic I've ever written. As well, I hope any underlying advice or tips mentioned in the story helped you to understand/realize something.

I would love it if you were to vote, give me some constructive criticism, and/or request something for me to write! Don't forget- I live to write that one fanfic you can never find.

Love y'all!

~ Race

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agent-absinthe · 4 years ago

Text

foreigner’s god pt. 1

marvel. bucky barnes/reader. canon divergent. heavy fic. 5k+

Blaire Briar gets through the day by telling herself that James Buchanan Barnes and the Winter Soldier are two different people. It makes knowing he’s been pardoned and walking free easier for her to process. Only when she’s forced to assist on a mission with him on the team roster her carefully constructed coping begins to crumble. Forced to finally deal with their shared trauma Blaire and Bucky begin the difficult process of healing. The process is made more difficult when Bucky realizes that despite everything he has feelings for her.

warnings: assault, rape/non-con, violence, blood, sexual content, language, No Snap AU

“Sir, I can’t take this assignment.”

Director Coulson looked up at the woman from his desk where he had been staring at the phone, currently on hold with Stark, a record 48 minutes now.

“That assignment requires your skill set, I would think after complaining of not feeling useful you’d be happy for the opportunity.”

“Sir,” she tried again- almost pleading, “I cannot take this. Not with this team.”

He leaned back in the chair and considered the woman in front of him. Special Agent Blaire Briar, who worked mainly as a grunt in Comms for recon teams. Except when her special talent of Energy Vampirism brought her out into the field. Although she wasn’t used often for the skill set, when it was needed she became invaluable. Briar started out as an intern for Shield brought in by Maria Hill on a Stark recommendation- a series of personal traumas set off by Alexander Pierce led to her current position.

“The team was hand picked and is non negotiable. Captain Rogers prefers to work with those he trusts and he says he needs you, this isn’t a request.”

“I have trauma with the Winter Soldier. I can’t-”

“Sergeant Barnes,” Coulson corrected feeling guilt at her desperate expression, “he was pardoned so as far as the government and all other agencies are concerned all reparations are paid. Any personal feelings are just that- personal- and are to be dealt with in your own time.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You’ll be reprimanded and will most likely cost thousands of people their lives if not more. I know that’s not something you want on your hands Agent, so just take the assignment. You’ll be back in comms by the end of the weekend if all goes well.”

This was fucking bullshit.

Blaire couldn’t see straight as she stomped down the hall back to comms, gripping the wall from a sudden bout of nausea that overtook her. The folder was delivered to her in the afternoon by a security personnel and at first she had been thrilled to receive the assignment. There were ruins on a small island off the coast of Ireland thought to contain a training base for Hydra recruits. Files inside the base could provide names of remaining Hydra agents, contracts and agreements that the terrorist organization made, among other intel that could be incredibly useful. It sounded interesting and she was itching to get out there and live a mission instead of listening in on one.

“Whoa, you ok? Jesus, Blaire you look like you’re about to throw up.” Hill’s voice sounded like it came from far away even when she put a concerned hand on her back.

“Tell me this job is worth it.”

“What?”

“I need you to keep me from walking the fuck outta here. I can’t do this shit anymore, I can’t fucking do it. I could be at Stark Industries or- or working with Strange or pouring goddamn drinks at Starbucks getting verbally abused by assholes.”

Her hands were on her knees now as she tried to focus on her breathing and stave off the panic attack building in her chest. She was too young for this kind of stress. Was any of this worth it? The manilla folder containing her assignment was tossed to the floor, open on the team roster page so his name glared out at them.

James Buchanan Barnes

When Maria saw the name she knew what was wrong immediately and knelt in front of Blaire, hands on her cheeks so she had to focus on her.

“Hey, hey, hey breathe for me, Briar. That’s it. Listen, they’re two different people- two completely different people.”

“I know that. I know.”

“You can do this, you’re strong and I know for a fact that you’re too much of a bitch to let something stop you from doing your job, right?”

Briar laughed at that, the laughter dissolving into tears momentarily before she regained her composure, “right.”

“You are the only one that can help them on that mission, you’re the one that’s gonna be calling the shots. Now let’s go ahead and go down to development so we can get you measured for your gear.”

“Are you listening to me, James?” Dr. Raynor asked with a forceful tap of her pen against the notepad to get his attention.

“Not really.”

She sighed and started writing waiting until he looked up with irritation before continuing, “I said done correctly this could be an opportunity for you to cross another name off the list. Emphasis on done correctly.”

Bucky let out a breath he was holding in and turned to the window so he could pretend not to hear what Raynor was saying. The therapist was right and so was Steve when he approached Bucky last week to let him know about who they needed for the recon. He’d apologized to people he tried to kill easy enough, but it didn’t feel like there was a proper way to apologize for what he did to her.

“And what am I supposed to do when I see her? Just walk up and say sorry? It’s like you and Steve live in this perfect little world where forgiveness is just handed out the minute someone says sorry.”

“Steve and I live in the real world where we face our problems-”

“Oh, here we go.”

“-where we face our problems and hope that we can be forgiven for any harm caused. You’ll be working with this girl so you will have to face it sooner or later, make sure Rogers is there when you do it if that will make you feel more comfortable. That’ll be your homework until our next session- try to come to terms with what happened and make an effort to talk to Briar.”

It was just the same shit Steve told him over and over. Dr. Raynor sure as hell couldn’t know what he was going through even Steve didn’t understand this part of adjusting.

Of atonement.

When he closes his eyes and concentrates he can still see Pierce with a smile telling him about a “special” side mission, a “treat really”, that he wanted The Winter Soldier to complete.

Her apartment was quiet when he entered through the bedroom window to begin the first step of the mission. Placing a small hidden camera in the framework of her gaming setup tucked in a corner across from the bed. When he walked into the rest of the home he was stopped by a curious mew and looked down to find a fat, grey cat weaving between his legs. The cat observed him for the rest of the camera placements and sweep of the apartment, disarming any weapons he found. A loaded gun under the sink, a taser between couch cushions, and a knife on the bathroom vanity.

“Your target’s not on her way yet so hang tight. Fix the camera in the living room while you wait, I want it more focused on the couch and turn on your body camera.” Pierce’s voice came over the earpiece sounding almost bored as he sat at his desk and looked through the new feeds.

He gravitated back to her bedroom when he wasn’t given another task finding that the room was pleasant to be in. Warm and dim, smelling like the floral perfume bottle he inspected earlier. The cat followed and jumped to the bed meowing at the soldier in annoyance when he didn’t pet him. Something like muscle memory took over and Bucky lifted his flesh hand out to the cat who purred rubbing it’s face into the palm.

“Good cat.” He mumbled earning another meow and purr.

After a few more minutes of radio silence he sat, the mattress and box spring groaned under his weight and the softness felt foreign. When another minute passed he leaned back in the unmade bed and didn’t move as a purring weight laid on his stomach. It was all so...comforting. Only when his eyes began to close did the earpiece screech on.

“Target’s in transit, be ready when she gets there-”

The front door opening interrupted Pierce, “Tikki! Where is my fat little man?”

Tikki jumped off of him and he could hear the cat meowing to it’s owner as she walked to the kitchen, tossing her bags down on the way. The woman looked normal enough to him, a little heavy for an agent but nothing he couldn’t handle.

“She’s worn out from training but we still don’t know how long her power can last. You need to get the implant in her neck to block the absorption if she tries anything.”

Bucky fished in his utility belt for the dime sized, pronged disk and held it in his fist as he stalked closer to the kitchen. She was singing to herself while stacking up dirty dishes to make room for a take out bag.

“Thank god I got there before they closed and yes they did give me some grilled chicken for you, Tikki. Such a fat kitty, lucky you’re so cute. Sure as hell don’t keep you around to pay rent, you’re a freeloader and you don’t even care!”

Pierce was telling him to proceed, but Bucky stood in the doorway and watched her set a small bowl down in front of Tikki who ignored it to eye him and meow louder, suddenly puffing up as if realizing that the strange man was now a threat.

“What’s the matter you crazy cat? That’s all you’re getting so deal with it.”

A low growl and hiss.

“Jesus Christ, what? Is there a fucking-” She started and turned around only for her voice to die in her throat as they stared at one another.

“Ok, Bucky?” Dr. Raynor repeated.

“Ya ok.”

This was it. They were getting briefed this morning then they’d be flown out, Blaire could barely stand without shaking so she sat at her small cubicle in comms until it was time. She should have known that Steve would try to play good guy and come find her.

“Hey, Blaire.”

“What do you want?”

“Briefing is gonna start soon, thought we could walk down there together.”

“To make you feel better or me?”

The super soldier leaned against her desk and crossed his arms, “you know I wouldn’t put you in this position if I didn’t have to. There’s no other way for us to get through those doors, trust me we’ve tried.”

“Let’s just get it over with.”

She wasn’t trying to lash out at Rogers on purpose but it was hard to control her anger when she felt this shitty. Steve and her used to be good friends, introduced by Tony who thought Blaire could make the soldier blush, they ended up balancing each other out nicely. After what happened with the winter soldier and Shield they grew apart not talking unless Tony had a gathering they were both obligated to attend. It was a loss on both ends when they stopped hanging out, the easy back and forth humor between them almost nonexistent now. It was early enough in the morning that the pair walked in silence without many other agents around until Steve broke it.

“I know I don’t have any room to say this, but Bucky’s a good guy. Begged me to find another way so you wouldn’t have to see him, tried to back out of the mission, he feels like shit about this and he wants to apologize to you.”

Blaire already knew where this was going, “and you’re the buffer?”

“His therapist suggested it. Dr. Raynor.”

That wasn’t something she expected. Therapy was a good sign, taking the therapist’s advice an even better one. Blaire wasn’t stupid she knew that Barnes was under the influence of years of systematic abuse when he attacked her, practically brainwashed and nearly physically impossible for him to defy an order. He was a victim too. That’s what made being angry at him still so hard.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Steve opening the door to the conference room to see Barnes pacing. The hair was shorter and the arm was new, but his body had the same heavy muscle and wide stance. She found that she couldn’t look at him when they finally made eye contact, not directly anyway. Focusing instead on the zipper of his gear or scruff on his chin.

He’s handsome. Why the fuck does he have to be handsome? It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. The world was playing some kind of fucked up joke for her to still be attracted to him. That wasn’t new of course; she found him attractive since she first saw the winter soldier in photos and videos from the attack on Fury in Pierce’s office. She had been standing there staring at the holograms when Pierce made an offhand remark about it, teasing her for her flushed cheeks. Now that she knew he was the one who ordered the attack the memory made her boil with shame.

“Agent Briar.” At least he was trying to be polite.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

“I-” he stopped, his adam’s apple bobbing with anxiety as he swallowed. “I am no longer The Winter Soldier, I am James Buchanan Barnes and you’re part of my effort to make amends-”

“Your therapist knows how to write a good script.” Blaire interrupted.

Steve didn’t make a move to intervene and stayed off to the side sipping a coffee and watching.

“Look, I know that you were not in control of yourself when it happened and because of that you are also a victim in the situation,” she said it slowly trying to sound reasonable, “There isn’t a lot that you can apologize for. Pierce is the one who owes me that and he’s been dead for a few years now so I doubt I’ll be getting it anytime soon.”

“Thank you for understanding, not a lot of people do, but I still have to tell you how sorry I am for the pain that I caused you. I want to try to make things right or as right as they can be.”

“If you really want that then you’ll interact with me as little as possible. Please understand that it’s not personal. I just can’t fucking look at you.”

Barnes nodded quickly, the words cut him to the core in a way he had never experienced. Yet he still apologized, still at least tried to make amends with Blaire and despite her blunt reaction he hoped Dr. Raynor would consider it a success.

“Yeah, of course. I can do that.”

Bucky thought he was doing a good job with it so far too. He stayed in the flank of the group during the mission and got to see her work after she was able to duplicate an energy reading and get through to the bunker. Three Hydra agents crumpled to the floor as soon as they rounded a corner to stop their progress, Briar released the pent up energy she absorbed from them at the next group they came across. Leaving their bodies broken and bloody in a heap against a wall.

“Hey, Cap why the hell did you drag me outta bed on a Saturday? Looks to me like Miss Atom Bomb here’s got it covered.”

“Miss Atom Bomb sounds like way too pretty of a hero name for me, Sam.” She laughed tossing a smile back at the Falcon, “guys on the Strike team just used to call me Leech.”

“Those guys were assholes.”

“Ya, they were pretty awful most of the time. M’not gonna be able to keep it up much longer though, I fill up on too much and I burn out quick. I got a few more bursts in me before I start seeing doubles.”

The bunker ended up being an intel goldmine opening up several leads for the team to follow in their mission to eradicate Hydra once and for all. Being part of that kind of adrenaline high in person had made Blaire even more dizzy than her burn out, no wonder field agents dreaded being behind a desk. It wasn’t until they were strapped back in the plane with the sun rising that she was beginning to feel that same dread. She was dirty and tired but helped more in this mission than she had almost her entire time in Communications.

“How ya feelin’, Briar?”

“Like shit, Romanoff. How about you?”

Natasha laughed and handed her a rations bar, “good to see you out in the field. Started feeling like the boy’s club for awhile.”

“How on Earth will you cope with my loss come Monday?”

“A quick word with Coulson and I won’t have to cope with anything.” She offered. Producing another rations bar from her pocket like a bribe.

“Nat, I can’t. Look at me, I’m not fit for field work-”

“You just obliterated more than 50 guys in that bunker and I’ve seen your hand to hand combat, it’s not bad.”

“Ya but I’m about to fucking pass out now. I mean- it’s complicated.”

The assassin stretched out and settled in next to Blaire trying to think of a way to talk her into it. Wanda and Vision were off trying to live the domesticality that Tony now had, leaving their team bare bones. There was no telling when or if Thor would show back up from trying to fix shit back home, they were missing a super and Blaire seemed the best fit.

“You wanna be in communication so bad then why don’t you be our guardian angel when we don’t absolutely need you in the field? It would get you out of that cubicle more often anyway, sure we could talk Coulson into a pay raise too. Plus you’ll get to listen to my voice and boss Steve around, what more could you want?”

“You’ve operated without a guide in HQ for so long. No one’s gonna buy it.”

“They will if Golden Boy and Wings asks.”

Blaire took the second ration bar and rolled her eyes, “I’ll think about it.”

She ended up taking it of course once Nat wanted something she almost always got it, Blaire sure as shit wasn’t going to tell her no. For the most part it started out really well with the exception of a few hiccups in finding her place on the field when it came to real action. Off the field was a different story- Blaire knew how to operate a team in a way that both got the job done safely and felt like borderline workplace violence at the same time. Bucky tended to be the target for the latter on most missions.

“You don’t listen! Jesus fucking christ I am going to buy a goddamn adult tether backpack for you! And ya know who’s gonna have to hold the leash? Wilson!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa don’t drag me into this. I’m doin’ my job.”

Bucky wanted to dig out the earpiece and throw it, “I still took care of it, didn’t I?”

“You fight like you have handlers still, Barnes. News flash, you don’t! I’m the one who has to file all the paperwork when you go off course on your own and cause mayhem and destruction like its the fucking Winter Soldier Show.”

All Bucky did was ignore her suggestion to not engage with the hostiles ahead until Natasha and Steve followed suit. There were only three guys from what he could see and a hostage was waiting for them with time running out so he did what he thought was best. There ended up being six instead of three and the hostage received a minor injury when he wasn’t able to get to them fast enough.

“Well, it’s over and done with now so could you just shut up?”

Everyone on the line went dead silent for a few seconds.

“Quinjet is waiting at the extraction point for pick up. Good job team, we look forward to your safe return to the hanger. Briar signing off.” Came the calm check out.

Sam landed next to Bucky with a satisfied chuckle, “oh you fucked up big time, buddy.”

“I hate you.”

She wasn’t waiting for them like she usually did when they landed, coming in a few minutes later with a small med team in tow to look over injuries. Barnes waved off the attempts to dab blood off of his brow where he caught a stray punch and focused on getting his gear off. Blaire wasn’t about to let him off the hook just yet, still too blinded by her rage to consider letting them both cool off before talking.

“That’s the third time you ignored me when I told you not to run blindly into enemy fire. What’s your problem, Barnes?”

“I’m not the one with a problem.”

“Are you kidding? It’s like you do this shit on purpose just to piss me off.”

“I do!” He yelled, turning around to make eye contact with her. “The only time you ever acknowledge me is when I get you riled up.”

“Oh, you poor baby do I not pay enough attention to you so you feel like you gotta act out?”

Bucky dropped the rest of his gear and started towards her, already feeling his energy dropping with each step from her defense. He didn’t let it show and only stopped when he was in front of her.

“You’re the one with the problem here. How am I supposed to fix this when you won’t talk to me? You won’t even look at me dammit! I’m the only one making an effort and I can’t let go of it if you won’t.”

Their voices boomed in the near empty hanger as Steve was making his way over to break it up after releasing the rescued hostage over to medical, fearing that he may be too late to salvage their already rocky relationship.

“What do you want, huh? You wanna hit me? Go on doll, take a shot and get it out of your system.” Bucky continued leaning down to her height tauntingly.

“Maybe I do.”

“Great, let’s go.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea-” Rogers started.

“Stay out of it, Steve!” They shouted in near unison before Blaire turned on her heel and began speed walking to the exit with Bucky right behind her.

The night air was shockingly cold against their flushed skin and it made Bucky think a little more clearly as the door slammed shut behind him. Only when he went to say something Blaire caught him by surprise with a haymaker to his cheek. Her punch held more power than he would have thought, momentarily knocking him off balance enough for Blaire to ram him. The impact of their bodies knocked both down to the wet grass as they struggled until she was on top raining half pulled punches down that she didn’t follow through with. Her hits fueled by emotion slowly got weaker and weaker until she slid off of him sobbing.

“I didn’t get mandated therapy. I lost my dignity and my job and my will to live in the span of a fucking week.” She choked out, nails digging into the artificial turf. “Then everyone found out it was Pierce that put out the hit and all that footage was just uploaded to the Hydra file. Oh don’t worry Blaire it’s classified it’s so classified but no we can’t delete it or anything sorry. I can get into it, I can see that file and I only have level green clearance. It’s just sitting there for anyone to look at it. My coworkers, bosses, the fuckin’ guys in coding. They can just type in credentials and watch me get raped.”

This must have been what Dr. Raynor meant by coming to terms. Pulling everything ugly out to the open so they didn’t have to dance around it any longer.

He looked strange without any of the guns and knives strapped to him, but it was still The Winter Soldier. Blaire knew that in an instant from the face mask strapped to him like a muzzle and the silver arm shining against his black modified jacket. She was frozen. Never in her life had she experienced Freeze instead of Fight, but then again she couldn’t remember the last time she was this scared. Thoughts ticked off in rapid fire until Tikki jumped up on the counter with a hiss breaking the spell. She threw the take out bowl of hot matzo ball soup that he easily dodged and turned around to feel under sink for the gun only to find it gone. A hand clamped something down on the back of her neck, his metal one coming down around her mouth like a vice when she yelled out for help.

“Any of your neighbors try to help they die.”

No, that wasn’t right. He sounded local, like he was from New York. That wasn’t possible. The metal crushing her jaw came off when she threw her elbow back with full force catching his ribs. It came darting back out immediately and shoved her to the kitchen floor on her stomach, his heavy weight on her lower back and ass was crushing as he straddled her.

“Fuck off! Better kill me because I’m not saying shit about anything.” She growled trying to buck him off.

There was no answer only his body going still like he wasn’t sure of the next move himself. Then the weight was gone and for a second Blaire thought that maybe she could get away or at least get to her phone on the counter and send a message to Shield. It was when she tried crawling away that she felt his fingers hook into her shorts and jerk them down.

“No!” More panic now than before. The prospect of death was always looming over her working where she did, but not this. Please anything but this.

With the shorts off she was rolled to her back as he straddle her hips, his hands trying to catch her wrists again while she fought. Nails raked down his face and neck, leaving rivets of red and tearing off his mask as they went. When Blaire caught sight of his face she knew it was over. There was no emotion there, just a slack jaw and blown out pupils. He was going through the motions like someone was telling him what to do, a machine being controlled by someone else. When the soldier did catch her wrists and pin them down with his metal hand he went still again, staring down at her as blood dripped off his face.

“I don’t wanna do this.” He suddenly announced maybe to her or to no one.

“You don’t have to! Just leave, just get up and leave. It’s not too late.”

She could hear the faint static buzz of someone screaming from his earpiece and then the slack look was back and her thighs were being kneed open. It was happening so fast and Blaire found herself completely powerless, he had done something to her to stop her energy absorption and without that she was just some intern with a little gun training. No amount of fight, of pleading, would help her now. Somehow that was more terrifying than anything else.

“Stop it! Get off me, get off! I’ll fucking kill you!”

The threats sizzled out into broken shrieks as he thrust into her hard enough to hurt both of them with no prep. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes from the pain and violation, droplets of his blood now falling faster onto her as he moved. Blaire tried catching his hip with her heel to get him off and keep fighting but the metal squeezed her wrists tighter in warning til they gave way with a crunch, his pace never slowing and only growing sloppier. The pain was too much for her to even scream for help, not that she’d want to. Didn’t need poor Miss Hoffman coming in here waving her cane to the rescue only to end up dead.

She looked past his blank face to stare at her kitchen ceiling focusing on the water mark in the corner she kept meaning to paint over. His flesh hand came up to her face to cover and turn it away as if he didn’t want her looking at him. The kitchen filled with the scent of soldier’s blood making her mouth taste like pennies. Droplets of it felt like scalding water as it fell on her check and neck. How long would it take to scrub his scent off? Her body couldn’t seem to adjust fast enough to allow her any relief but by the grace of whatever cruel god watched the display his hips stuttered and stopped. A sob bubbled up from the sensation- too hot and too full, seeping out of her before he even pulled out.

There was always a point in his missions where the targets gave in and stopped fighting. He watched that happen with this one after he stood. Watched her curl in on herself as she laid there crying with his cum dripping out of her and down the back of her thighs. Then he was back to her bedroom window without retrieving his mask or the blocking device, no longer listening to whatever was coming through the earpiece. Mind going absolutely haywire and telling him he just needed to get out.

“I’m sorry, Blaire. I didn’t know.” Bucky sat up with his own chest beginning to tighten at what she was telling him, it made him sick.

She cried harder and shook her head, “it’s not your fault, Barnes. No matter how much I want it to be so I wouldn’t feel so shitty for hating you. It’s not your fault.”

Without thinking Bucky leaned over and wrapped an arm around Blaire pulling her to his chest. She tensed at first but relaxed and returned the hug when she felt him begin to shake too. So they sat together on the wet turf and cried until Steve managed to herd them back inside thankful they hadn’t killed each other.

Bucky kept a hand on Briar’s shoulder as they entered, “Are we good?”

“Ya, we’re good.” She clapped him on the back and then punched his arm as an after thought, “but if you ever tell me to shut up during a mission again I’ll tell your therapist and make sure you have to go to sensitivity training. This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

“I’ll only get a rise out of you when I want you to yell at me then.”

He watched her roll her eyes and could have sworn he saw the corner of her mouth turn up into a smile. That made him smile too and Bucky felt a new sense of ease. Unsurprisingly at his next session with Dr. Raynor he found it easier to open up.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes/reader #Bucky Barnes #marvel #rape/non-con #assault #fanfiction #ao3 #eventual fluff #smut #trauma #ok so i havent posted anything on tumblr in a long time but I really wanted to post this #kinda way out of my comfort zone as far as topics since i dont usually write so much trauma #next part coming in a few days since it's already written

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entitynumber5 · 4 years ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker Characters: Sasha James, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Martin Blackwood, Elias Bouchard, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist (mentioned) Additional Tags: Episode: e026 A Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Elias Is Unpleasant, Minor Sasha James/Tim Stoker, Sasha James Lives, Not-Them Sasha James Doesn't Exist, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives) Series: Part 2 of this tired world could change AU Summary:

After a series of encounters, Sasha examines her role in the Archives.

(A sort-of follow-up to "a martyr in my bed tonight").

Because I can’t stop thinking about TMA series 1!!!! During the series 5 final act no less!!!!! Have some Sasha and Tim and Martin being friends and supporting each other (but watch out for Elias). I don’t know what this AU is going to be other than everyone will live. Writing is not coming easily at the moment so I am taking whatever inspiration strikes and running with it!!!

Content warnings: blood, injury, panic attacks, worms, dizziness, disorientation, voyeurism, invasions of privacy, surveillance, manipulation, gaslighting, isolation, mentions of past surgery, needles, trypanophobia (phobia of needles), medical anxiety, dermatillomania, exhaustion, insomnia, brief allusion to self-harm, nausea.

Full text below!! I hope everyone is having a wonderful day <3

From where Sasha is sitting, she can just see through the thin, dirty window that stripes down the centre of the staff room door. There are stickers accumulating along its starboard side: a yellow biohazard warning stolen from Artefact Storage; colourful Pride memorabilia from a building society she doubts cares for the cause beyond June; the logo of the band Tim has been trying to get her into for years. She catalogues each one again, slowly, before looking through the slice of a window to where Martin is standing near the fridge, having a panic attack.

She wonders if he knows it isn’t quite a hiding place, that lonely gap between the fridge and the door. The staff room is not especially ergonomic, trying to be too many things at once, and because of this, there are bizarre breaks between appliances and furniture, spaces too awkward to be filled but large enough to linger in.

Martin lingers.

At first, she worried he’d seen something—a silver worm, burrowing into the bin or even the moulding countertop—or was already assessing this corner as a space that might be suited to a fire extinguisher. He was so calm when she arrived, even though it was six in the morning and her coat was stained with blood. He didn’t look like he’d been asleep, although he had been on edge. Expecting someone. Not her, though. Still, he’d taken it in his stride, wrapped her in one of the blankets they’d equipped the spare room with and led her to the chair in Jon’s office while he made calls. Tim first, then Jon. He spoke calmly to them both, only flinching when Jon snapped about how “there had better be a good reason for this, Martin” before Martin had a chance to explain. Listening to Martin then, she knew he hadn’t been asleep. His voice was lacking that rusty disuse, the weariness from being woken up. He sounded tired, but not that his rest had been disturbed. She wondered if he had been talking to himself in the night when it was silent in the Archives and no one else was around.

And then Jon had arrived. He looked unimpressed but otherwise deliberately neutral when Martin explained that he knew where the first aid kit was in Jon’s drawer, that he had already opened it and helped Sasha with her wound. Tim arrived and made a fuss and went to get coffee because Jon was irritated by his constant pacing and hovering. Martin disappeared. Sasha gave her statement.

Somehow, she ended up back in the open plan office, slumped at her own desk while Tim texts her from the Pret down the road and Jon searches endlessly for Jane Prentiss’s statement and Martin has a panic attack in the break room.

She should have intervened earlier. Intervened when he went to make her a cup of tea, but she had been too tired and disorientated to remind him she preferred coffee, that Tim was already on that particular mission. Intervened when the kettle boiled and popped and Martin went to get the milk from the fridge and something made him stop. A collapse of the calm he had gifted her, perhaps. One moment of intense, stubborn, heart-breaking resilience too much. She watches him breathe too fast. He’s right in front of the door; if someone opens it, they will open it into him. She thinks, I need to get up. I need to help. But she is just too tired.

Her phone buzzes. She manages to pull her eyes away, although the tiny motion disorientates her, and when she gets her bearings—she’s forgotten about Tim. There’s a prickling at the back of her neck, like the sensation of being watched, and she just has time to think not again before she is thrown off track by the arrival of Elias.

At least it’s not Michael this time. Although, to be honest, that thought is not as comforting as she expects.

“Sasha,” Elias says, his voice infused with a concern that makes her skin itch, “Jon informed me you were injured?”

Sasha forces a smile. “Thank you, Elias. For your concern. But it’s nothing serious. Really, I’ll be fine, Tim is actually out right now getting me some—”

“Coffee, yes. You’ll be needing it after such a long night.”

Her inhibitions are lower. She doesn’t have the energy to pick apart this conversation, to remember again and again that she is talking to her boss’s boss. She squints at him. “I, um—how did you—?”

“An assumption. Based on what Jon wrote in his email. You recall me mentioning that he had emailed about your unfortunate encounter?”

“Y-yes?” she replies, but she’s not sure she remembers.

“I came down here to speak to Martin, as a matter of fact, but it’s a good job I ran into you,” Elias continues jovially, “Why don’t you take a few days off? I’m sure you could use some rest and relaxation,”

“Jon already offered…”

“How generous of him.”

“But I—I’m not sure I need—”

“The Archives will be quite alright without you, Sasha,” Elias tells her with an odd smile, “Quite alright indeed.”

Sasha doesn’t say anything. Her head is spinning. She wants Tim to come back right now and diffuse the oddness of this situation with his bulldozer workplace humour.

“Now, would you happen to know where Martin actually is?”

The realisation comes, blessedly, with a moment of razor clarity: Martin. Elias is obscuring her limited vision through the staff room door, but Martin hasn’t left yet. The certainty that Elias knows this, somehow, grips her like a hand around the throat. He smiles placidly at her, but there is something cutting in his eyes, something that knows far too much.

“Nothing untoward, of course,” Elias adds, “But he has been going through a rather rough time lately and I wanted to check in with him. Jon has asked me to replace the fire suppressant system with CO2 in case of any future worm infestations. I thought that might also put Martin’s mind at ease somewhat. You know what he’s like.”

Sasha forces herself to meet Elias’s eyes. To not look over his shoulder, to give him any reason to even glance into the staff room. “He’s with Tim.”

Elias’s smile twitches. “Is that so? I could have sworn I saw him down here only a moment ago.”

Sasha continues to look him in the eye. She knows that the only way to look through the staff room door, the only way to catch a glimpse of Martin, would be from her desk chair, from the exact angle she had been sitting in. She had tested this. She used this particular trick when Jon was trying to hide from them all but she needed to ask him something.

Elias hasn’t seen Martin. And yet. It snags at her mind, her logic, that subconscious but vivid sense of wrongness.

“He’s not here,” Sasha says, “But you could tell me how the CO2 system works. In case one of us needs to activate it.”

Elias’s smile falls a fraction. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Another time,” Sasha echoes, trying to hold this as a promise in her mind. She feels like she needs to know. She understands now, the way Martin has sharpened himself in anticipation of an unavoidable future. He is not different, but he is not the same. None of us will be, she thinks. And it scares her how naturally that thought comes, as if from somewhere deep and unknown that she would not be able to conjure on demand.

“I’ll leave you to recover,” Elias says with false grace, “Take all the time you need.”

Sasha summons an insincere smile and hopes he doesn’t realise how desperately she wants him to leave. He turns and walks from the Archives without a glance in the direction of the staff room, but Sasha gets that same impression that he knows Martin is in there. Knows why Martin is in there.

She wraps her hand around the desk and uses it to leverage herself up. But the change in elevation is immediately a bad idea, and her wheely chair has a mind of its own, spinning away before she can throw herself back into it. She stumbles, spots cartwheeling across her vision, and she thinks she is about to fall when a hand closes around her elbow.

“Whoa, steady there, Sash,” Tim murmurs. He slides the coffee holder carelessly onto her desk and puts his other arm around her, steadying her further. “You okay?”

“Tim,” Sasha says, still dizzy, “You’ve played poker, right?”

Tim huffs a small, confused laugh. “Let’s get you sitting down again.”

By the time he’s herded her chair back to the desk, still with one hand holding her steady, Sasha’s vision has cleared. She sinks gratefully back into the chair and grapples for the coffee holder, dragging it across the desk. There are four takeaway cups. She has no idea which one is hers. She wants to drop her head against the desk and sleep.

Tim crouches beside her chair, one hand soft against her forearm and the other shifting nervously at his side. He looks up at her, earnest and worried. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” she says.

“Sasha.”

“Poker. I need to ask you something about poker.”

“I’ll tell you all about poker once you’ve—”

“No, tell me now,” Sasha insists, “While I remember.”

“Alright, alright. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me what people look like when they’ve shown their hand too early. You know, when they’ve—they’re winning but they’ve just told everyone they’re winning.”

“I mean, I just used to play in my college’s basement. And the others were all set on spending daddy’s money, so it wasn’t like anyone really cared if they gave the game away.”

Sasha groans. She brings her hand to her face, rubbing at her eyes, which feel heavy and sore. “Tim, just… humour me.”

“They looked smug, but…” Tim thinks for a moment, his thumb brushing against the inside of her wrist. “Still smug, that’s a hard foundation to shake, but like for the first time in their life someone’s seeing through them. Is that—was that what you needed to hear?”

Sasha drops her hand and smiles tiredly at him. “Yeah. I’ll… I can try and explain, but…”

“Later, yeah?”

Sasha sighs gratefully. “Later.”

Through the door, Sasha sees Martin trying to steady himself. Deeper breaths, shaking out his hands to dispel some of their trembling. He tips his head back for a moment, squeezes his eyes shut and seems to try forcefully summoning some semblance of calm.

“This one’s yours,” Tim says, placing one of the coffees in front of her, “I got the barrister to put extra caramel in there for you.”

“How sweet. When’s the wedding?”

“Psh,” Tim says with a flick of his hair, but there is a seriousness in his eyes that doesn’t match his words when he continues, “I have eyes only for you, my dear. And oh, would you look at that? I’m already on one knee! Sasha James, will you do me the honour—?”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Get up.”

“As you wish.” Tim winks before he stands.

“Can you go and check on Martin?”

“But I’m currently in the process of checking on you.”

“I’m fine. Martin’s having a panic attack in the staff room.”

Tim whips around before Sasha can tell him to be subtle about it, but it’s not like he can see through the door at his angle. “Oh, shit.”

Sasha leans slightly in her chair. Martin is no longer in view. He must have moved away from the door, which is good. Tim won’t crush him when he opens it. “Go now or he’ll open the new milk for no reason.”

“Oh, god, not the new milk,” Tim gasps.

“Tim.”

“Look, I’ve—we spoke the other day. About the panic attacks. He says he prefers to be alone for a bit, afterwards.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

“I don’t know,” Tim replies with a small, almost imperceptible flinch, “But Sash, you’re still covered in blood. Can I—will you let me check if you need stitches, at least?”

“Martin already looked at it,” Sasha replies, her tongue loosened by exhaustion and blood loss, “Did a pretty good job considering he never actually completed his first aid training.”

Tim smiles, half fond, half admonishing. “I am not letting you near Jon right now. There are some things he really doesn’t need to know.”

“Jon asks me to ‘free up’ official records and whatnot. It’s not like he doesn’t know,” Sasha replies. But she pauses for a moment, defensiveness eclipsed by guilt. “That one was accidental, though.”

“Finding out or letting it slip?”

“Both?” Sasha tries. Tim looks dubious.

“Right,” Tim announces, moving on, “Can I go all nurse Stoker yet?”

“Fine. But you’re checking on Martin afterwards. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Sasha eases off her coat again. The grey wool is stained and she is sure no amount of dry cleaning will get it out, besides the fact that she doesn’t want to weather the awkwardness and anxiety of having to explain it to them. Michael’s hands—talons?—had ripped a neat but gaping hole in the shoulder and sewing has never been her strong point. She could ask Tim to do it, she supposes. But it looks like a lost cause where it droops to the floor beneath her desk and comes to a mournful, final rest.

“I liked that coat,” she sighs.

“I’ll get you a new one,” Tim murmurs distractedly, now fully focused on his task, “Anything for you.”

Sasha grits her teeth as Tim carefully peels away the gauze Martin had applied earlier to inspect the wound beneath. She can feel the wound is clean, almost surgical. It throbs in a similar way to the incision on her lower back when she’d had a mole removed a few years ago, although there was no anaesthetic this time, no warning. Behind her, she hears Tim inhale sharply when the entire gash comes into view.

“That looks deep,” Tim says sympathetically.

“It’ll be fine.”

“I think you need stitches.”

“I don’t need stiches, Tim.”

“To be fair, Sasha, you can’t see it. I can take a picture or something. It’s deep. And it can’t hurt to check, can it? Just in case.” Tim pauses, taking a trembling breath. “Humour me.”

“You know I don’t like needles,” Sasha mutters.

“I know.” Tim’s voice is so warm, so reassuring.

“I really don’t like needles.”

“I’ll hold your hand.”

“What about Martin?”

“He can come with us.”

“He doesn’t like hospitals.”

“Do I want to know how you know that?”

Sasha glances at the door again. She still can’t see him. She wonders if he’s okay. If he has forced himself to go back to making tea, if he is composing himself so they won’t ask when he steps back into the office. “I was watching Gray’s Anatomy the other day on my break. I asked if he wanted to join me since he was looking sort of lonely, but he said he could never get into those kinds of shows, never liked anything to do with hospitals. I mean, I kind of had to force it out of him. I think he would have sat and watched it just to avoid offending me otherwise.”

Sasha knows from Tim’s silence that he knows something she doesn’t. She forces herself not to push.

The staff room door creaks open in a way only Martin can seem to manage—so quiet, so deliberately quiet they wouldn’t hear if they weren’t listening. Martin himself steps out, looking washed out and red-eyed. He doesn’t look like he’s been crying, but he does look like he’s rubbed at his eyes, scratched slightly at his cheeks. He musters a small, shaking smile for them both, a cup of tea in each hand. The surface of the tea ripples with the lingering motion of Martin’s hands.

“Hey, guys,” Martin says quietly, “Oh, Tim, I didn’t realise you—I didn’t make—but you can have this one. It’s got sugar in it. But I know you don’t mind sugar sometimes. Although it’s the mug with the—”

Tim moves around the desk so he’s hiding the coffee cups behind him. “Oh, no, you keep it, mate. It’s your tea. And you look like you could do with the caffeine.”

“Yeah, I need to get on with some follow-ups or Jon won’t exactly be happy with me.” Martin’s smile is still wan, still too small. “And I don’t want to fall asleep at my desk again,” he adds with false cheer.

“Didn’t Jon tell you?” Tim says cheerfully. Sasha marvels, for a moment, at his ease. She knows he is good at this—at seeming happy even when he is not—but her heart hurts at the ways life has forced Tim to lie. “We’ve got the rest of the day off.”

Martin frowns. The smile falls away quickly, as if grateful for the excuse. “We do?”

“Yeah. It’s a workplace rule.”

“About?” Martin says, dragging the word out in nervous curiosity.

“Traumatic events,” Tim replies seamlessly, “I’ll get you the employee handbook if you—”

“As long as we don’t get in trouble.” A humourless laugh from Martin. “As long as we don’t get in trouble, I’ll take it.”

“Why don’t you go and rest a bit? I know you had an early start with all the commotion this morning.” Tim gives Martin a gentle, encouraging smile. Sasha can only see it in profile, but she knows it well enough herself to grasp the full picture. “I’m going to take Sasha to A&E just in case she needs stiches, okay?”

“Oh.” Martin’s lips tremble almost imperceptibly. “Oh, Sasha, I—I didn’t know—I thought maybe it—I’m sorry. I really should have checked better, I—”

“Oh, Martin, no. No,” Sasha interrupts, as gently as she can, trying to mirror Tim’s calm, “You did a great job. Tim’s just being a mother hen.”

“You know me,” Tim adds merrily.

Martin looks even paler with guilt. “I can come with you. If you need someone to—I can tell the doctor about the first aid earlier if they need to know the details—”

“I’ll be fine, Martin,” Sasha tells him, “And Tim’s right. Go and sit down, at the very least. I woke you up far too early this morning.”

Martin looks almost like the words Sasha is thinking are on the tip of his tongue: I wasn’t asleep. But he offers another blank smile, a valiant attempt, but there is something deeply sad and guilty around his eyes. “Keep me updated?”

Sasha smiles. “Of course.”

“How about I come and let you know when we’re leaving? I need to let Jon know before we go, anyway, and Sasha’s not in a rush to go near any needles,” Tim offers.

Sasha wishes her desk wasn’t enclosed so she could kick Tim. Martin just nods and begins walking away, almost ghost-like, still holding both cups of tea as if he doesn’t know he is in possession of them. Sasha wonders when he will notice. If he will punish himself for it in some hidden, devastating way.

Like refusing to sleep under the guise of keeping watch.

“God,” Sasha murmurs, “I really—I feel awful.”

Tim watches the shadowed hallway Martin disappeared through. “I’ll talk to him. And you have nothing to feel bad about. You couldn’t help waking him up and it’s not like you were feeling—”

“It’s not that.” Sasha chews at her lip. She almost doesn’t want to tell him, even though she knows he won’t judge her. That almost makes it worse—that she shouldn’t be forgiven, but she will be if she speaks it aloud. “I was—I kept trying to make it logical in my mind. Jane Prentiss, the worms, Martin’s encounter. I realise now I was just trying to make myself feel better, but I kept telling myself that if she was really a serious threat, Martin would be dead. But, Tim, he’s—he’s far more resilient than any of us give him credit for, and I’ve been a complete—”

“Sasha,” Tim whispers, brushing his fingers against her knuckles where she’s clenching the desk again, “I understand. I do.”

“I guess I’m just a bit shaken by it all.”

“I know. We all are. But it’s going to be alright. I’m going to do everything in my power to make it alright.”

Sasha meets his determined gaze. “Me too.”

“Right, I’ll text Jon and tell him where we’re going. He’ll be elbow deep in statements somewhere and very grumpy if I interrupt.”

Sasha musters a weak laugh. “Don’t be mean. He was nice to me. I think he was worried.”

“Jonathan Sims? Worried?”

“Tim.”

“No,” Tim assents with an apologetic smile, “To be fair, it’s been a stressful few months. I know he cares. I just wish…”

“He’d show it a bit more?”

“Yeah. Just a bit.”

Sasha sighs. She gives Tim a weak push. “Please go and check on Martin. Don’t make me ask again.”

“Okay, okay, but…” Tim smiles, almost shy. “Can I kiss you?”

Sasha taps her forehead, just once. It’s a familiar, well-worn routine by now. Tim lowers his lips to her hairline, places a gentle kiss where she indicated and then moves away from her desk. He smiles, a genuine, real smile—nothing behind or beneath it. Uncomplicated, complete. She returns it.

“I’ll be back,” Tim warms in an overly-dramatic voice as he hurries away to check on Martin.

Sasha sits alone at her desk and thinks, incongruously, about fire extinguishers.

When the Archives are under attack, when Jane Prentiss roams hissing and writhing through the rooms and halls where she used to laugh with people she no longer knows are alive, Sasha doesn’t go to Elias.

When she finds the fire suppressant system, when it takes her nearly ten minutes to work out the wiring and the code and the mechanism, she is almost sick with the fear that she is too late.

When she finds out she was right on time, she weeps.

And when she looks at Jon and Tim’s scars, when she notices the shadows beneath Martin’s eyes, when she faces down her own nightmares about a siege that could have been so much worse and yet wrought so much damage, she still cannot help but think she dodged a bullet.

It’s a stranger of a feeling. The certainty of it is new and unsettling. But it doesn’t leave her, this sense that she escaped something intended for her. She cries with fear when she hears fire alarms, close or far, and finds herself intensely, unexplainably grateful.

#anyone else think about how hard Sasha's encounter might have been for Martin or is it just me #also Sasha deserves to be loved and cherised #i miss her #Sasha is aro btw i don't mention it specifically but i adore this hc #i don't even know what this AU is and yet it is the only thing getting me out of bed right now #i want Sasha and Tim to somehow appear in the finale but i DREAD how that might come about #i just miss them so much!!!!#cw blood #cw injury #cw panic attack #cw worms #cw disorientation #cw invasions of privacy #cw surgery #cw manipulation #cw gaslighting #cw isolation #cw needles #cw medical anxiety #cw dermatillomania #cw exhaustion #cw insomnia #cw self-harm #cw nausea #i hope i got all of them but please please let me know otherwise #mostly very brief mentions but i want to be safe #take care of yourselves #<333 #also fuck elias #i'm sorry to subject you to him in this fic

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camillemontespan · 5 years ago

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her one constant [part three: for safety] [drake the bodyguard AU]

Part Two if you want to catch up

A short series in which TRR canon is used but instead, Drake is MC’s bodyguard. The above edit is mine and I really liked it so I had to find another excuse to use it again!

@ibldw-main @jovialyouthmusic @katedrakeohd @moonlightgem7 @pug-bitch @princessleac1 @burnsoslow @notoriouscs @dcbbw @saivilo @rainbowsinthestorm @marshmallowsandfire @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @sirbeepsalot @gardeningourmet @emichelle

Thank you to everyone for reminding me of TRR canon scenes that I can use for this fic. @jovialyouthmusic reminded me of Lythikos and the meteor shower - I can’t believe I forgot about that. So, this chapter focuses on that.

Previously..

‘I’m here,’ Drake murmured, his voice cracking. ‘If you need to talk..’

Camille’s smile wobbled. ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘You’re my one constant.’

**********************************

Drake woke up at 6am without needing an alarm. After a steaming hot shower and selecting his suit for the day, Drake was ready for work.

As usual, he stood in the foyer of Valtoria Manor, waiting for the Duchess to appear. Today was a big day for Camille; she was to visit the duchy of Lythikos for the weekend with the rest of court. Camille hadn’t been to Lythikos before and wasn’t yet prepared for what a weekend with Olivia Nevrakis would entail. Neither did Drake and as her bodyguard, he had to be with her all weekend. He was not looking forward to it; he didn’t like the look of Olivia. She tended to speak to Camille in patronising tones, often saying a bitchy comment. Drake had no time for arrogant nobles.

‘Morning, Drake.’

Drake started at the sound of Camille’s voice. He looked up to see her descending the staircase with a suitcase that seemed full to the brim. She was wearing a pink ski jacket with black thermal leggings. On her feet was a pair of wooly snow boots. She looked different; more youthful. Cute actually. The wooly hat that was placed on top of her head only added to the cute effect.

Drake gave her a smile. ‘Duchess.’

She stopped at the foot of the stairs and raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Call me Camille,’ she said.

Drake smirked and gestured for Camille to walk in front of him. Instead, she waited for him to walk too and she fell into step beside him.

‘I like your boots,’ he said, surprising himself and her. Camille looked up at him with her brown eyes sparkling and a warm smile lit up her face.

‘Thank you!’ she said. ‘But aren’t you going to be cold in your suit?’

Drake chuckled. ‘I’ve packed some layers.’

‘Good,’ she said, nodding her approval. ‘Can’t have you getting cold.’

‘Aww shucks, Camille, you worried I’m going to freeze my toes off?’ Drake teased, shooting her a wry smile.

‘Well someone’s got to look after you,’ Camille shot back, her voice also light and teasing. They had reached the car. The driver, Geoffrey, took her suitcase and placed it inside, letting Drake and Camille continue to joke with each other.

‘You’re not my mom,’ Drake said, opening her car door, ignoring Geoffrey who had his hand out to do it himself. Geoffrey shrugged, resigning himself to the fact that when Drake was around, he may as well just drive the car. The bodyguard did everything else.

‘If she is a typical Texas woman like I think she is, she would want her son to be kept on the straight and narrow,’ Camille protested, not giving up. ‘She would want you to be snug and wrapped up in treacherous Lythikos conditions! She’s not here so I’m going to look after you this weekend and that starts with making sure that you at least wear a hat.’

Drake let out a deep laugh, throwing his head back as he did so. He shut the door and walked to his side of the car, getting in. He turned to Camille after fastening his seat belt, ready to continue their teasing.

‘You know that I’m the one meant to be looking out for you, right?’ he asked her.

‘Sure, protecting me from Olivia Nevrakis,’ Camille said, shrugging. ‘But if I see you not wearing a wooly hat this weekend, I will..I…’

She trailed off.

Drake raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’

She gave him a triumphant and endearing grin. ‘I will call your mother!’

**************

Lythikos was freezing. As soon as Camille stepped out onto the snow, she let out a series of expletives that made Drake laugh as soon as she shouted them out. He had never heard her swear before but he found that he liked it.

‘Oh god, Drake, take me homeeeee..’ she groaned. ‘I need my fireplace, a blanket and a glass of whiskey right now..’

‘Jesus, Camille, don’t tempt me,’ Drake muttered, helping her with her suitcase. Geoffrey stayed in the car, knowing his job was done for the weekend.

Drake and Camille plodded through the thick snow, keeping their heads down as the wind struck snowflakes and hail into their faces. Camille’s suitcase was not built for this landscape; for one thing, it had wheels. She tried to drag it through the snow but to no avail; Drake grabbed it and carried it with one hand, desperate to reach indoors before they froze to death.

‘The things I do for you..’ he grumbled goodnaturedly.

They reached Lythikos Keep a few minutes later, their noses red and their eyes streaming with tears from the freezing temperatures. Olivia was standing at the door with her eyes narrowed and arms crossed. She was wearing a red sweater, black leather trousers and boots with a heel that could take Drake’s eye out.

‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ she droned in her obnoxious Lythikiosian accent. ‘The commoner.’

‘You. invited. me,’ Camille said bluntly, punctuating each pause between her words.

‘Only because Liam wanted me to,’ Olivia told her, rolling her eyes. ‘Come in before you die of frostbite.’

‘Charming,’ Drake muttered.

Olivia wrinkled her nose at him. ‘And you are?’

Drake was about to respond but was beaten by Camille, who pulled her hat off and raised her chin in defiance. Gone was the cute appearance. Now, she looked like a woman on the edge.

‘Drake,’ she said, her voice like ice. ‘My bodyguard.’

‘Not very polite to bring your bodyguard,’ Olivia said, her voice like silk. ‘Whatever do you think will happen to you this weekend?’

Drake smirked and interrupted Camille before she could deliver a scathing response. ‘I am to be by her side at all times,’ he said, keeping his voice even and strong. ‘It’s my duty to protect her, regardless of where we are and who we are with.’

Olivia raised an eyebrow. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But you have to sleep in the servant’s quarters which is only appropriate-’

‘He gets a room near me,’ Camille interrupted. ‘Otherwise I’m leaving and Liam will certainly hear about how inhospitable Lythikos was to the new Duchess of Valtoria.’

Drake pressed his lips together, holding in laughter. Olivia looked like she wanted to hit Camille and was exercising all of her restraint not to.

‘Fine,’ she spat, finally. ‘The bodyguard can sleep next door to you. No funny business, mind.’

Drake raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh really?’ he asked, keeping his voice innocent. ‘Give my regards to Lou.’

Olivia’s face paled. Drake smirked and pushed past her to help Camille get inside.

*********************************

‘Who the hell is Lou?’ Camille hissed as they walked quickly up the stairs to their rooms.

‘Her bodyguard,’ Drake whispered. ‘They’re fucking.’

‘WHAT?!’

‘Shhhhh!’

Camille shook her head. ‘Oh my god, that’s unbelievable! Well, I never thought she would do something like that. Also, how do you know?’

Drake chuckled. ‘Lou told me.’

‘...Bodyguards gossip?’

Drake smirked, making Camille’s eyes widen. ‘Lou gossips,’ he corrected her. ‘I don’t. I’m professional at all times, trust me.’

A blush bloomed on Camille’s cheeks.

They reached Camille’s bedroom. Drake entered first, scouting the room for anything suspicious. Camille watched him curiously.

‘So, what are you looking for?’

‘Well,’ Drake said as he investigated the room, ‘windows without a lock, forced signs of entry, possible ways for intruders to get inside.. Anything that could make you vulnerable. But you’re fine, all clear.’

Camille edged into the room, warily, and looked up at the corners of the room. Drake frowned. ‘You alright?’ he asked.

‘Just making sure the room’s not bugged,’ Camille quipped, flashing him a mischievous smile. Drake chuckled, realising she was teasing him. He watched as she took off her ski jacket and he tried his best not to stare at how her cashmere grey sweater slid off one shoulder, exposing a delicate collarbone.

‘So, I’ll be in my room,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to unpack. According to your schedule, you’re meeting the rest of the group downstairs in thirty minutes for wine and cheese-’

‘Fancy..’ Camille muttered, clearly not impressed.

‘So I’ll be stationed in the dining room with Lou,’ Drake finished. ‘You need anything, let me know.’

Camille wrapped her arms around her body, as if she was trying to keep herself together. ‘Confidence? Bad assery?’ she said, giving him a weak smile. She let out a shaky breath. ‘Drake, I’m shitting this.’

He moved closer to her, his eyebrows furrowed together with concern. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What’s there to be nervous about?’

‘It’s Lythikos!’ Camille cried, throwing her hands up in the air. ‘I’m in Olivia’s domain! She hates me. God knows what she’ll do - she was so pissed when she found out Liam had proposed to me. And don’t get me started on Madeleine, that girl wants me dead, I swear-’

Drake grasped hold of her hands and held them tightly. His eyes bore into hers. ‘Camille, breathe,’ he instructed her firmly. ‘Calm down.’

Her hands were shaking. When she spoke, her voice was very small and quiet. ‘I just feel like the outcast,’ she whispered. ‘All the time. I’m a commoner pretending to be a Duchess-’

‘No you’re not.’

‘That’s what it feels like,’ she told him fiercely. ‘I feel like I’m masquerading as this noble woman, this woman who wears designer clothes, has a fancy house and acts more important than she is. But that’s not me. I feel like fraud. And here I am, in Lythikos with women who hate me, trying to be a noble woman like they are but everytime I’m near Olivia or Madeleine, I just feel like I don’t belong.’

Drake closed his eyes. He knew Camille had been having self-confidence issues for months; but he hadn’t realised it had gotten this bad for her. Why hadn’t she said something to him?

Because you’re her bodyguard. You’re not her friend or her boyfriend.

He ignored his internal thoughts. Time for a pep talk.

‘Camille,’ he said, opening his eyes to meet hers. ‘You are worthy of being in that room with them. Hell, you’re worth more than all the nobles of Cordonia put together. You are the best Duchess that Cordonia has seen in years; you care about the people, you make a difference. You are loved by the people and that is worth everything. Who cares what Olivia or Madeleine think of you? They’re just jealous. Fuck ‘em.’

‘But-’

‘You are incredible,’ Drake continued, ignoring her protests. ‘It astounds me that you don’t believe in yourself. You should. When you walk into the lion’s den in thirty minutes, you throw your shoulders back, hold your head high and be yourself. Because that’s all you need to do. You’re the Duchess of Valtoria, sure, but you’re also Camille Montespan. You told me one of your ancestors was a noble in France, right? Fucking own it.’

Camille was staring at Drake with wide eyes as he continued his tirade. He couldn’t stop. He had to make her realise how important she was.

‘You’re more blue blood than fucking Madeleine,’ he said. ‘So I won’t have you thinking they’re better than you because they’re not. They could try but they wouldn’t get very far, if I’m fucking honest. You belong in that room. Don’t let them make you feel small. If they make you feel even more shit, say the word and I’ll kill them.’

Camille stared at Drake in shocked silence. Drake cleared his throat, worried he had gone too far in his rage. But she had to know how amazing she was. She had to.

She reached out to squeeze his hand. 'Thank you, Drake,' she murmured.

Drake smiled weakly and made his excuses to leave. If he stayed any longer, every feeling he had about her would pour out of his mouth and she would know exactly how amazing he thought she was.

***************

That evening, the group convened downstairs to drink wine and eat cheese. Olivia had selected her best bottles from her wine cellar and wore a smug smile on her face as Liam complimented her selection.

Camille sat beside Hana, the two women happy to talk amongst themselves as they drank wine.

Maxwell didn't like wine but he tried his best.

Drake stood in the corner of the room beside Lou. As usual, Lou made inappropriate jokes about Camille, knowing it would bother Drake.

'She looks mighty fine in those jeans,' Lou said. 'Like two peaches.'

'Lou, shut the fuck up and do your job,' Drake muttered.

Lou smirked. 'Olivia's at home. She doesn't need me to be on duty 24/7.'

'That's the difference between me and you,' Drake replied, his voice cold. 'I take my job seriously.'

Lou shook his head but said nothing to defend himself. Drake watched as Camille sipped her wine, occasionally her eyes meeting his.

Olivia spotted this.

'So, Camille,' she said grandly. 'Tell me about why you acquired a bodyguard and why he is here this weekend like the lap dog he is.'

Camille clenched the stem of her wine glass. 'It's in his contract that he is always with me,' she explained frostily. 'Simple to understand, Olivia.'

'But you are here under my care,' Olivia said smoothly. 'You don't need a human shield to protect you.'

'Drake is more than that,' Camille said quickly. 'He's my friend -'

'Nobles don't have commoners as friends,' Olivia said. 'The sooner you learn that, the better. You are the Duchess of Valtoria. To forget your place in this world is to do Liam a disservice.'

'Liv, stop it,' Liam butted in. 'Just because she is a Duchess doesn't mean she can't be friends with who she wants.'

'I'm just saying, the media will associate Camille with who she spends time with,' Olivia said. 'How do you think it will look if she is constantly with her bodyguard? Like she is afraid and vulnerable. Gossip websites are already calling her a coward and that she doesn't trust Cordonia to look after her.'

Drake couldn't listen anymore.

He didn't want to be her weakness. He couldn't be her weakness. All he wanted was to help her be strong but even now, he was damaging her reputation.

He wrenched himself away from the wall and strode out of the room and through the French doors to get some fresh air outside.

For the first time in four months, he abandoned his post.

************

Camille saw Drake leave before everyone else did. As soon as he left the room, she felt the cold air surround her and the feeling that she was adrift without a life raft to keep her afloat.

She pulled on her coat and scarf, rushing to follow him. Olivia rolled her eyes as she watched Camille run after the bodyguard. But Camille didn't care. She needed to talk to Drake and tell him not to pay attention to Olivia.

The snow and hail hit her as soon as she got outside. Bracing herself, she wrapped her arms tight around her body and strode purposefully through the snow, trying to find Drake in the dark.

She found him standing on top of a snow covered hill. He was looking down over the duchy of Lythikos with its small wooden houses lit up like stars.

'Drake,' she said softly.

He turned to face her. 'Go back inside, Duchess,' he said, his voice monotone. 'You'll catch a cold.'

Camille shook her head, moving towards him. 'No. Come back inside. You're not wearing a hat.'

A tiny, sad smile broke out on his forlorn face. Their little joke from earlier. When things were lighter.

'Don't listen to Olivia,' Camille said desperately. 'She talks shit. Don't let her make you feel small - you said that to me earlier and now I'm saying it to you. You're my friend and protector. You look after me in ways nobody else does.'

'I can't have people thinking you're weak,' Drake told her. 'I refuse to be the reason why people underestimate you.'

'People underestimate me because they're assholes!' Camille protested. 'Not because of you! Drake, you've helped me so much these past four months. You've helped me trust people again, you've helped me feel safer!'

Drake shook his head, turning to look away. Camille grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back to look down at her. As the wind caught at her hair, Drake could see the ferocity in her eyes.

'I was a mess when we met!' she shouted over the wind and snow. Tears were filling her eyes now.

'The assassination on Constantine made me a wreck. I was terrified to go back into that ballroom in case another situation like that happened! But you took over as my bodyguard and you took the time to make me feel secure. You are always there, loyal and steadfast. Seriously, Drake, I would be a shell of a woman if it wasn't for you. I would have upped and left to go back to my shitty life in New York but because of you, I keep going. You make me feel confident with your pep talks and reassurances. So don't you dare listen to Olivia again, you hear me?!-'

Drake pulled her into him and held her close as she sobbed. He didn't care that it was inappropriate to hold her tightly like this. She was crying and he didn't want her to cry because of him, ever. All he wanted was for her to be happy.

'It's alright,' he choked out, his fingers grasping her hair into knots. 'It's alright, Camille. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I walked out and left you there. I'm sorry.'

Camille's fists bunched his shirt that was now soaked from the cold and snow. She let out a whimper. Drake held her tighter.

She gently pulled away, rubbing her eyes harshly. She looked up at him.

'You need to buy yourself a hat,' she said, her voice cracking. 'You're definitely going to get a cold now.'

Drake chucked, relieved she was feeling a little better. He moved away from her and looked up at the sky.

'Hey, look,' he said softly. 'Meteor shower..'

And so, the two of them forgot their emotionally charged moment and settled down on the snow to watch the meteor above.

Camille leaned back. Her hand brushed Drake's. They both jumped.

'Sorry..' she whispered.

Drake smiled. 'No worries, Duchess.'

She nudged his shoulder with hers. 'Call me Camille.'

Drake smirked and nudged her shoulder back. 'Sorry Camille.'

They watched the meteor shower in wonder. Drake loved the outdoors from a childhood of camping and hiking with his father. Since Jackson had passed, Drake had been unable to share his love of the outdoors with anyone; it hadn’t felt right. Sort of like he was betraying his father. But right now, here he was, sharing this moment with Camille. He couldn’t help but feel that his father would be pleased.

‘I love looking up at the stars,’ Camille said softly. ‘It reminds me that really, we’re just a tiny speck of dust in the universe and in the grand scheme of things, nothing matters. It gives me perspective.’

Drake smiled. ‘I get that,’ he said. ‘Like, you realise that your place in society doesn’t really matter. Nothing you do has a big impact, not really, unless you’re a hero which most people aren’t. We’re insignificant.’

Camille laughed. ‘God, we’re so cynical.’

‘I am,’ Drake agreed. ‘But I’m surprised at you.’

Camille shrugged. ‘Maybe court has made me cynical. It’s certainly made me develop a thick skin. I’m different to who I was six months ago.’

Drake bit his lip. He turned to look at her, no longer focusing on the stars above. He was looking at Camille, a star in her own right. ‘Who were you six months ago?’ he asked gently.

She smiled to herself, still looking up at the sky. ‘A waitress who lived in a crappy apartment in New York,’ she said. ‘Naive. Tired. But happy.’

‘Are you not happy now?’

Camille wrenched her eyes away from the sky and looked at Drake. Her eyes softened when she found his gaze.

‘I’m happy now,’ she whispered.

Drake’s heart flipped.

They looked up at the sky, watching the meteors, but not really focusing. Instead, both of them were acutely aware of the other. How close their bodies were. How open they could be with each other. How their relationship was not typical of that of a bodyguard and his charge.

When they wandered back to the keep, Camille slipped on the snowy ground. Drake reached out to grab her, his instincts always on point. Their hands tightened around each other. As Camille stood up straighter, she didn't let go.

'For safety,' she said, giving him a nod.

Drake squeezed her hand, glad the cold air was a good excuse for the pink blush on his cheeks.

'For safety,' he repeated.

Together, they walked hand in hand back to the keep.

#drake walker #drake walker x mc #trr fanfic #the royal romance #drake x camille

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guiltysecretpasttime · 4 years ago

Text

Adversity (Chapter 4)

Fic update 📝

Previous chapters here:

1 | 2 | 3

Overview: Lin and Tenzin are both at the height of their respective careers – she with the Metalbending Police and he with the Air Nation. Questions about their future begin to arise and things come to a head when Lin responded to an emergency call. Would her job take them from each other forever? Eventual HEA. Non-canon compliant, AU. (Notes at the end of the post.)

“Lin, I’m home.”

Hearing no response, Tenzin realized that he had once more arrived at an empty house.

It should not have bothered him. He knew the hours were difficult and there were a bunch of triads acting up as it usually did during the changing of the guard.

It did not bother him, but it did worry him. Lin did brief him about the general details of her cases that week as well as her whereabouts. Nonetheless, he could not help but worry about her safety.

He padded in the kitchen, not quite hungry but he figured he needed to eat something for sustenance.

Just then, he heard someone at the gate, knocking and calling out, “Excuse me, I’m looking for a Tenzin?”

He was sure he did not order anything, and it was too late for post. Cautiously, he responded through the window. “What is it?”

“A delivery, sir.” A young man on a bike, wearing the uniform of one of the restaurants in Republic City, peeked through the gate. “Placed by Chief Beifong.”

Tenzin got out and unlocked the gate, accepting two small boxes of take-out. He recognized the aroma and the packaging as belonging to his favorites from the store (a stir-fry composed of mung bean sprout and tofu as well as sesame balls for dessert).

He could feel his appetite building but he knew he had to check if the food was safe to eat (it was no secret that the airbender was living with the Chief of Police after all). Gingerly opening the take-out box, he found a small note stuck to the box: “Eat up, Master Tenzin. You’ll need to keep up your strength. Lin”

In the living room, he set up the boxes on the coffee table and proceeded to take out the chopsticks, smiling as he reached to pick up the telephone to ring Republic City Headquarters.

Even while she was busy during her overtime at work, Chief Lin Beifong managed to remind Tenzin of how much she cares for him.

******

The office of the Chief of Police was silent, save for the occasional turning of pages and the scratches of her pen as she put remarks on the reports of her subordinates. Outside, the wind howled, and the harsh downpour batted on the windows: the manifestation of one of the worse typhoons to hit Republic City in the past five years and the first one during Chief Lin Beifong’s term.

Based on the forecast, the city council had announced that there will be no enforced evacuation. A bulletin was simply made to alert the citizens and to ensure that the city is well-prepared for the landfall.

It was a weekend and, technically, Lin need not be at headquarters. She was sure that her deputy could handle any possible incident, but she thought to remain on call just the same. This would make guidance and decision-making swift as opposed to her staying at home.

So far, there were no issues raised in the city. The disaster-readiness team has been spread across red alert areas and commercial establishments have been advised against opening for the next few days, resulting in little to no traffic across Republic City. Lin was pleased at that outcome for it would greatly reduce the risk for the inhabitants of the city during the typhoon.

Movement from her office couch brought her back to the present; a book dropped unceremoniously as the hand holding it went lax. She looked at the clock, calculating that the next forecast would be phoned by the meteorologist at the top of the next hour.

Lin picked up the book that was at the floor near the couch. “Tenzin,” She lightly tapped the airbender who had inadvertently fallen asleep while reading. “Are you comfortable enough here?” The man stretched his arms slightly; Lin frowned. She had initially asked him to stay at home or with his parents but she now knew that the short window to travel outdoors has passed. As if to corroborate this, sharp lightning illuminated the room followed by the crash of thunder. “You really didn’t need to accompany me here, you know.”

Tenzin pulled at her hand that was on his shoulder, making her sit down beside him. “I’ll just be useless at home,” He started to squeeze her biceps in an attempt to relax her. “Besides, you’re busy taking care of others here, who will take care of you?” He quickly kissed her head and bundled her up in the throw blanket he brought from her house, ignoring the grumbling mutterings of the metalbender. “You don’t have a meeting in the next couple of minutes and you haven’t stopped working for the past sixteen hours. Have a quick shut-eye, I promise I’ll wake you up if anything changes.”

Lin decided that spending the typhoon weekend, staking out in her office was not so pleasant. But, she supposed, as she leaned into Tenzin, working on a weekend was not as bad when he was there.

******

Lips sought each other in the dark, accustomed to the familiar movement yet desperately seeking each other after being apart for a little over a month.

A hand found its way within the folds of the orange robe, palm flat on the chest, as though listening to the beating heart. The other hand pulled the collar down, bringing the tall airbender closer to the woman in metal.

To reciprocate, the airbender ran his fingers through Lin’s hair, scattering the pins that held it up unto the floor. He whimpered, feeling her tongue probe to gain access to his.

Tenzin quickly grappled with the sides of the police uniform. Finding resistance from this end, he transferred both hands to her back.

“Damn.”

Lin pulled away, squinting at the bald airbender before her. “Did you just curse?”

“I can’t remove your armor.” As if to prove a point, he began to rapidly skim his fingers across the ridges at her back then at her hips.

“Well,” The metalbender smiled in amusement. “I can remove your robes.” And to prove her point, with deft fingers and two pulls different areas of the cloth, the robes fell off and rendering the airbender topless. “See.” She traces his chest, admiring the handiwork, making the man groan.

“That doesn’t help me – you’re still overdressed.”

“That’s because you literally can’t remove this.” With a flick of her wrist and a hand wave, the metalbender bended the armor away to its position at the back of the door, leaving her in her tank top and pants. “Only metalbenders can.”

Tenzin drew her closer, trailing his lips on her shoulders. “That’s a problem, what if I needed to remove your armor from you, hmmm?” He suddenly found himself wrenched away, her hands on his shoulders.

“That’s right!” Lin’s eyes were alight and her boyfriend belatedly recognized it as triumph and not hazy arousal. “What if something does happen on field and the metalbender’s partner is not a metalbender? That does pose safety hazards.”

Chief Lin Beifong was reminded of the original Chief Beifong – while she was a prodigy and had single-handedly created metalbending, built the academy and established RCPD, she was also (though rightly so, Lin grudgingly conceded) quite cocky. She probably did not consider a situation where her elite metalbending force would be knocked out unconscious and requiring medical assistance from a non-metalbender to get out of their armor.

“Lin? Lin!” Tenzin was quickly losing his girlfriend to work despite being half undressed. He had spent weeks travelling to all Air Temples with his father. He truly did miss Lin and had anticipated his homecoming differently from this. “I swear to all things sacred, Lin Beifong, if you start rattling about prototypes I will-!” He was interrupted by a pair of lips crashing unto his.

A whispered murmur before he was pushed unto the bed. “I love you, Tenzin.”

---

In a few weeks’ time, Chief Lin Beifong was presenting the working prototype to the rest of the police force. It had been tested (successfully) on field and all that was left was to produce it for all members of the metalbending division. As she explained the features and merits of the armor, a culture of inclusivity across divisions in the force started to erupt.

Little did anyone know, that this innovation was brought about simply because the younger airbending master was feeling a little frisky one night.

******

Tenzin had a bad feeling about this day.

He looked at his earthbender, standing beside him, clutching the railings of the ferry as the ocean spray played with her hair. Lin looked far too serene that he felt suspicious.

It all started a few nights ago, when they had a quiet evening at home, when he brought up his continued frustrations with his sessions in Air Temple island.

His father had started to delegate more and more of his responsibilities to his remaining child. Bumi was away with the United Forces and Kya had been on and off the island due to her travels. There have been talks of replacing the current Air Acolyte council member as well, with Tenzin being the most eligible successor. Not to mention, his students at the temple have not been paying much attention to him.

Lin had sympathized with him on the first parts of his sharing but was downright scoffing when he brought up being disregarding by the Air Acolytes (“No, they’re not disrespecting you. At least, not in the way you think they are disrespecting you”). He was starting to get frustrated with her on that point; he realized that she never did seem to take that concern (this insecurity of his) seriously. Then, in true Beifong fashion, Lin offered a bet (“I bet you I can prove and pinpoint to you that they are not disrespecting you and they very much like that you are their teacher – or master, shall I say.”). Said airbending master agreed without thinking twice, believing that this would be an easy bet for him. But the metalbender’s mischievous expression made him think that he might have just committed a mistake.

---

Lin bounded off to greet his parents, her enthusiastic hugs to them was enough to keep Tenzin’s guard up. He trailed behind her.

What is she up to?

He had reached them just in time to hear his father gladly exclaim.

“Why, yes of course, Lin. As always, you’re very much welcome to join me in my session with the Air Acolytes today.” The joy on his father’s weathered face making it appear to be more youthful. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to sit-in Tenzin’s class instead? It’s in the next time slot after mine.”

“Oh, no worries – I’ll be joining both.” Lin suddenly produces a small black flip notebook. “If it’s okay, I’ll be taking down notes. I’m trying to help Tenzin with his lesson plan.” She explained (too) innocently.

“That’s great!” Aang, Tenzin knew, always appreciated it when someone outside of their nuclear family makes an effort to attend classes in the island. “With your background in Toph’s Metalbending Academy as well as the training and development in the police force, you’d have good outsider inputs on how we’re doing. Might be good to incorporate training and teaching techniques which are a little bit modern than what I’m accustomed to. But first, tea.”

Lin offered her arm for Aang to hold on as they made their way to the main house on the island with Katara walking on the other side of the Avatar, merrily chatting about the letters that Kya sent regarding this firebender she met in the Earth Kingdom.

---

Chief Lin Beifong treasured her rest days as much as the next officer. She specially savored time she spent alone, catching up on her reading, having a quiet cup to herself… but today presented an opportunity to prove a point to her amazingly (dense) innocent and naïve boyfriend.

She took substantial notes from the cultural and demo class that Aang taught. Aside from the actual class content, the detective likewise took note of her observations on the class dynamics, composition and structure. She was confident that she will be able to drive home her point to Tenzin later that day.

She was walking down the path to the other pavilion when a flash of red and yellow came up to her in a breeze.

“How was class with Dad?”

“It was enlightening,” The earthbender responded sincerely; there were airbending movements that could possibly improve how to bend the metal cables of the police form. “I can’t wait to try some movements out in the next training at work.”

“That’s good to hear,” She noticed a flash of appreciation on his face followed by skepticism. “But what are you up to anyway?”

“I’m telling you, you’re a good teacher – it’s not what you’re doing that is the problem.”

“Then – what is?” The airbender asked as they neared the pavilion, noticing that the area was quickly filling up with various acolytes.

“Your class.” Lin easily boosted herself to a nearby tree, giving her an excellent view of the pavilion but hiding her from the class’ view.

“What do you mean?” Tenzin looked up, Lin’s foot disappearing from view. A snicker was his only answer and he shook his head, going to the front of the pavilion to begin class.

As she expected, Lin observed that compared to the earlier class of Aang, Tenzin’s class was predominantly composed of female Air Acolytes of a younger age group.

Starry-eyed debutants and shrewd-looking women…

Lin shuddered as to how could Tenzin not recognize how (almost) predatory his students were, if their gaze on the airbending master was something to base on. Class went on and she made herself comfortable at her hideout; scribbling in her notebook as she saw how the dynamics in Tenzin’s class was.

Some acolytes were a little bit more aggressive than others while others were going for the innocent route.

“Any questions before we do pairings?” Tenzin finished explaining an airbending move, which, while will not generate air among non-benders, will help restore one’s chi and clean one’s blood by strengthening tendons and bones.

One particularly aggressive woman who appeared to be of Fire Nation descent (“Let’s call her Baby Azula.” Lin thought to herself.) raised her hand. “Do we only pair with each other or would you be pairing with one of us as well?”

Lin saw how all eyes turned to Tenzin in anticipation.

“Uh, you’ll be pairing with another student but I’ll be going around to spot and check your forms.”

Cut and run, airhead, cut and run.

Baby Azula was not yet finished. “How would we know how to perform the forms properly?”

This was getting interesting. Lin tucked the notebook and pen in her pocket, focusing her full attention to the class.

Tenzin scratched his head as his other hand pointed to the cartolina hung in front of the class. “The basic forms are already illustrated, you can use these as guides.”

“But, Master Tenzin, maybe you can demonstrate it please?” Baby Azula continued to insist with determination.

Yes, Master Tenzin, please do. Lin almost snickered.

“Yes, Master Tenzin, please demonstrate for us.” Another acolyte with a rounded and seemingly cherubic face pleaded breathily (“She can be Baby Face.” Lin decided). “It would help us so much and it would take less time than if you spend correcting everyone individually.”

Tenzin seemed to consider what Baby Face reasoned out and the rest of the students voiced their agreement with this suggestion.

“Alright, that’s a fair suggestion, Pema,” Tenzin acquiesced (Lin frowned, “Baby Face has a name now.”) and he waved his arms in front of him, asking the class to move back to give him enough space. “In this first form, you need to ensure that you inhale – then before transitioning to the next, you hold your breath then you release.”

Even Lin, who had seen Tenzin go through different airbending forms since they were children, was mesmerized with the fluidity of his movement.

These children don’t stand a chance…

True enough, there was soft giggles coming from a group at the back of the class. Lin could see a defeated expression start to dawn on the airbender’s face as he probably heard the giggles.

“Alright, class, pair up.”

“But, Master Tenzin,” Baby Face (Lin adamantly refused to call her Pema) piped up. “Are there particular breathing patterns that we’ll need to use? How deep or long should each breath be?”

Ohhhhh, I didn’t give this child enough credit. Lin leaned forward to see how Tenzin will respond to this.

“Yes, Master Tenzin – show us, please, how to breathe through these airbending forms.” Baby Azula added.

Lin could almost see the gears turning as Tenzin tried to figure out how to correctly demonstrate breathing.

Oh, for Spirits’ sake. The earthbender rolled her eyes in exasperation. Take it off, Master Tenzin, take it off. How else could they see how you breathe without seeing your bare chest? Was this airbending master really that guileless?

“Hello, everyone!” A new voice added to the clamoring of the Air Acolytes.

Aang and Katara have both entered the pavilion, good-naturedly greeting, well, everyone.

“Good day, class, Tenzin,” Aang tilted his head towards the group and his son. “Lin.”

Eyes widening, Lin jumped off the tree and met the surprised eyes of the class. She muttered a weak hello and a small wave, clasping her hands behind her back, standing like a police officer on duty at the edge of the pavilion.

“Hope you’re all doing well?” Katara addressed the acolytes, who had varying expressions of surprise and annoyance.

Upon hearing their affirmative, Aang beamed at them. “Good to hear. I see you’re having some difficulty with the latest module,” He flicked at the cartolina. “Something about breathing – Tenzin?”

“I – uh – I’m not sure how to show them,” Tenzin executed some of the forms. “But I’m unable to demonstrate the right breathing pattern, or at least, in a way that could help them.”

Lin bit her lip as she stopped herself from blurting out, “Take the robes off, Master Tenzin!”

“Eh, I’m bad at this.” Tenzin frowned as he turned to his father, shrugging.

“Oh no, Master Tenzin!” Baby Face interjected with conviction. “You’re not bad at this. You’re a great teacher.” The way she spoke put emphasis on almost every other word grated on Lin’s ears.

“Yes, it’s not that you’re unable to demonstrate but that it’s a bit challenging to see.” The old Avatar was nodding in agreement. “I suppose it was also a bit difficult for you because as an airbender, the breathing patterns came a bit more naturally.”

Lin saw the older airbender light up as he caught her eye.

Oh no.

“Ah, Lin but can!”

There were gasps of incredulity and surprise.

She heard herself as well: “No, I can’t!”

“Oh come, come here, child.” Aang beckoned to her to enter the pavilion. “Lin here has sat in my class earlier and is acting as an observer in Tenzin’s.” He explained to the shocked class. “I think she is in a good position to execute these forms.”

“Uncle, no – really.” Lin gestured to her clothes, a tank top and a pair of casual pants. “I’m not even attired properly for airbending.”

“Nonsense,” Aang took her hand and led her to the front of the class, the acolytes giving them a wider berth. “Practicing forms of your opposite element entails,” To the class, he lectured. “A different mindset and preparation. It is a little bit more daunting and challenging for benders. Lin here is a capable earthbender which is polarly the opposite of an airbender.”

Not that anyone in this island need reminding of that; I’m pretty sure they’re very much aware of that fact. Lin almost scowled but kept her face neutral; she caught Tenzin’s apologetic face.

“But she was able to execute the forms well at the end of the earlier class.”

Damn, she did not think anyone saw her moving alongside the class demonstration.

“Lin, if you please?” Aang let go of her hand as he stepped to the side to join his son and wife, a placid smile on his face.

Well, I can’t say no to the Avatar, can I?

Lin Beifong closed her eyes, took a few deep breathes and began.

---

“She’s a natural!”

Tenzin smiled at his father’s exhibition of exuberance – hugging the strong metalbender tightly as the young woman laughed.

“I’m not a natural and I’m sure of it – maybe Tenzin’s been rubbing off me.” Above Aang’s shoulder, Lin met Tenzin’s eye with a smirk, knowing that the innuendo is not lost on him.

His mother shook her head at them, catching the exchange as she held on to Tenzin’s arm as they made their way to the main house.

Tenzin had cut his class a few minutes shorter, much to the consternation of the Air Acolytes as Aang (and Lin as well, after Aang implored her to assist after the demo) helped him out in correcting the forms of the students, progressing through the lesson quicker.

Aang was pleased with how Lin handled the airbending demonstration earlier; he had continued to rave all the way back to the house for a late lunch. Tenzin had to admit that there was something pleasing about how the earthbender moved - the light and flowing gestures were a far cry from her usual reliance on apparent brute force (thought it certainly helped as well how her clothes clung to her, emphasizing every breath she took).

"Look here, sweetie!" His father called out to his mother as Aang and Lin paused at a side garden, metal cables thrown out from Lin's detachable coil belt. "Lin is using airbending forms to metalbend!" He clapped in excitement. Tenzin knew that his father truly treasured any form of keeping the Air Nation culture alive.

Katara removed herself from her son's side to link arms at her husband, inquiring about possibly incorporating waterbending movement as well to the deployment of the cables.

Tenzin walked slowly to them, feeling a sense of contentment watching his parents and his girlfriend bond.

His girlfriend.

Boyfriend and girlfriend.

Such a trite title for our relationship, Tenzin mused. Did he want to change this?

He watched as Lin tried to flick her arm as Katara demonstrated how to throw a water whip. His mother nodded in approval and Lin tried again, this time with the cables. It flew to the tree and with another flick, it retracted quickly. Even from a few yards away, Tenzin could see the look of proud accomplishment on the metalbender's face.

So, did he want to change their relationship?

He came to a realization: yes, yes he does - he wants to make it a more permanent one.

====

Thanks for continuing to read this 😊 Really appreciate the comments, feedback (on the plot, grammar, characterization, go ahead – I admit I wrote this in a sleep-deprived stretch haha.) is very much welcome. So here we are – the fourth part, in which we see some vignettes in the next weeks in the life of Lin and Tenzin.

Cross-posted in AO3

Other chapters here:

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

#lin beifong #linzin #linzin fanfic #lok #tenzin #legend of korra #toccatina's fanfics #toccatina wip #toccatina adversity

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afewmarvelousthoughts · 5 years ago

Text

Only For A Moment Ch. 46

Master: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Summary: For most of your life you’d been able to keep your abilities a secret, that is until Hydra got wind of you. After years of being in their clutches, you break out when The Avengers expose SHIELD/Hydra. Since then, you’ve been on the run. Things are going as well as you could hope when you see a familiar face… Could the Winter Soldier really be in Bucharest too?

Warnings: Canon violence, blood, trauma, feels

A/N: SURPRISE! Remember how I was like there are two more chapters (making this the final one)? Remember how I’m a liar? Yeah. Good times. There is one chapter after this that will put a bow on this long and winding part one of OFAM.

I’m deep in my feelings. I hope you all enjoy it.

And, of course, shout out to @wonderlandmind4 for being my beta and supporting my bullshit. (God read everything she does it’s wonderful.)

Tags are open!

When Steve offers to drive to the rendezvous with Sharon Carter you aren’t inclined to argue. You’d passed out the night before but it was nowhere near enough.

In the back of the Beetle, you curl up next to Bucky, not that there was much choice. He tucks you under his arm and the sound of his steady heart paired with the motion of the car lull you back to dreamless sleep. You don’t stir until you hear Steve’s door creak open.

Bucky shifts a bit next to you, clearly uncomfortable in the cramped space, trying not to jam his knees into Sam’s back as Steve had to him the night before. Glowering a bit at Sam for clearly ignoring his situation.

He looks in the rearview mirror at Sam, “Can you move your seat up?” His tone measured, clearly trying to sound polite despite his annoyance.

“No,” Sam says completely deadpan, not even bothering to meet Bucky’s stern gaze in the mirror.

Silence lingers. Bucky attempts to shift just a little closer to you though there’s nowhere to go. You look between the two men and a laugh bubbles up. You try to contain it but Sam’s expression pushes you over the edge and you cackle, the sound filling the car.

“You are the smallest person here so I don’t want to hear a thing from you.” His tone is serious but you catch the faintest glimmer of a smile in the mirror.

Your laughter fades into an uncomfortable grimace as soon as Agent Carter turns her gaze to the three of you. With a tight smile on your lips, you lift your hand in a weak wave.

“A wave, really?” Sam throws a sideways glance your way.

“Just trying to be polite.”

“From what I hear you beat her ass yesterday. I think polite is out the window.” Sam gets out to help Steve with the gear.

“Why’d you attack her?” Bucky asks.

“She was going for you.”

“Not like she didn’t have a good reason to.”

“Yeah, well-” you shrug- “I also headbutted the Black Widow so I’m down two for two on my girl power points.” He chuckles pressing a kiss to your temple.

With the car stuffed with bodies and gear, Steve steers you toward the airport. The closer you get the heavier the silence, each person wrapped in their own fears and concerns.

In an attempt to calm your racing thoughts you lean your ear back against Bucky’s chest, counting the steady beats. It doesn’t do much but remind you just what you’ll do, what you’ll sacrifice, to protect this heart.

The moment Steve parks, you feel your stomach flip. Your gaze flits to Bucky’s only to see him looking down at you too. Sam and Steve step out but the two of you linger for a moment, knowing it may be the last time you have alone.

“We’re gonna get through this. Together,” he says it like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. You try to take a deep breath and nod.

“We should-”

“Yeah,” he cuts you off.

You reach forward to push the driver’s seat up. He pulls you back kissing you deeply. Breathless his lips hover above yours. Your heart skitters, the intensity in his gaze sending chills down your spine.

Though you both want this moment to stretch, to last forever, you know it can’t. Begrudgingly he pulls back, allowing you enough room to extricate yourself from the cramped quarters.

As you get out you catch the gaze of someone you recognize from Avenger’s coverage to be Clint Barton. He looks from you to Bucky, eyebrow cocked up in a knowing gaze. Feeling like a kid who’s been caught making out behind the bleachers you quickly turn away, rounding the car to stand beside Bucky as the five of them continue to chat.

He slides his hand in your’s giving it a squeeze before interrupting, “We should get moving.”

Before anyone can respond a voice crackles over the airport intercom. As the announcer repeats the evacuation notice you glance up at Bucky, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

“Stark,” Sam and Steve echo.

“You’re not wearing that?” Clint nods to Cap, a smirk on his face. Steve shakes his head and pops open the trunk, stuffed with their contraband gear.

“Let’s find someplace to get our bearings,” Steve says as he hands Sam his wings.

You all hunker down in what seems to be a large custodian closet. There’s just enough space for you all but no extra room for modesty, not that it matters much to you.

Geared up, everyone makes quick introductions, to both each other and who or rather what you’re all facing. The details out of the way Steve begins to layout a plan of attack as best he can, given the limited information available.

“We’ll split,” Steve says. “Bucky, you and Sam head into the terminal. If Stark and the others are here they’ll have the jet. Find it.” Bucky slides you a sidelong glance, drawing you closer, but doesn’t protest.

“Wanda, you and Clint stick together and be my distance support. Scott, Y/N, you’re with me. They don’t know what either of you can do so the element of surprise will be useful if it comes to that.”

Steve looks at everyone, every inch the leader, “Ready?” Nods from all, “Let’s make this as quick and clean as possible. No one needs to get hurt.”

Before you head to follow Steve Bucky pulls you to him suddenly, his kiss fleeting and a touch desperate. His mouth opens as if to say something but he shakes his head. Lifting your hand to his lips he kisses your knuckles. As soon as he releases your hand you turn on your heel and sprint to catch up with Steve, too afraid that if you stop or look back that you’ll lose your nerve.

From your position behind a storage container, you can clearly hear every word that falls from Tony Stark’s pompous mouth. Somehow each syllable makes you angrier than the last. You know Steve is just stalling but you have to actually hold your tongue between your teeth to keep from telling him to fuck himself.

A voice that sounds far too young to be here hits your ears and you almost peek out. Bigger fish, Y/N, you coach yourself.

Finally, Sam’s voice comes through the comms, “We found it.”

“Alright, guys,” Steve says.

This was your go. The tension in your muscles release, and you spring to the top of the container and over to Steve, your feet never once touching the ground.

“Who the hell?” The guy you assume is James Rhodes says. His body language showing the surprise you can’t see on his face.

You couldn’t blame him. Lang, lands by you and Steve, handing him his shield, now back to his normal size in a matter of seconds. It was impressive and a little jarring to even you.

To her credit, Romanoff doesn’t look the least bit phased. She gives Lang a once over, clearly trying to assess him. When her appraising stare falls to you, you’re a bit surprised to see more admiration than anger in her expression considering your last encounter.

Stark, however, wastes no time. He heads for Wanda and Clint while Rhodes clocks Bucky and Sam’s position.

You’re ready to move on Rhodes when King T’Challa growls, “Barnes is mine!”

“The hell he is!” You wrap your power around his torso as he sprints for the terminal, tugging him back hard, as Steve launches his shield at T’Challa’s back.

“Cover Rhodes,” Steve says as he pursues T’Challa.

There isn’t time to argue though you want to. You can better handle someone with air proficiency and Steve is better suited for the ground. Still...

“Got it,” you grudgingly acknowledge turning to face Rhodes as he pulls out an oversized stun baton. Could he have picked a weapon you hated more?

“Look, I don’t know who you are but… I really suggest you stand down,” he says.

“Thanks for the suggestion,” you say, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face.

Ensnaring the baton in your grasp you pull it from him. Simultaneously you land another invisible blow directly to the middle of his chest that sends him spinning back. The baton comes straight into your waiting palm just before he rights himself.

“What the hell?!” He exclaims once more as you brandish his own weapon.

“This thing is hefty-” you give it a once over- “overcompensating?”

“Real funny,” he quips before shooting straight for you.

He’s fast, but a big target is easy for you to get a feel of. Thrusting your power before you like a net, he slams into it. The reverberations of the impact thrum through your brain, pain sizzling at the edges of your vision.

Pushing the discomfort aside you lift yourself from the ground, propelling yourself up and over him by stepping on his helmet. Pulling your power back he tumbles forward, you lasso his ankles, slamming him to the ground as you land behind him.

The instant he moves to turn you swing the baton with all your force, landing it in his shoulder. Between the impact and the electricity, it manages to short the suit--at least for now.

You’re going to have to tell Bucky he was right. All those hours of training did pay off. Damn.

“Uh… can we get some assistance,” Sam’s voice pipes up in the comms. “We’re a little… tied up.”

“Heading your way,” you respond, sprinting toward the terminal.

You try, you really do, to not laugh when you see them. Despite your best efforts and the absolute shit show of this entire situation you fail. The two of them are stuck to the ground with the same substance that spider kid had shot at Steve.

“Really boys? You let a 12-year-old get the drop on you?”

Bucky stands, brushing the webbing off his arms. “He may be a kid but he stopped my left hook like it was nothing.” Your brows raise in surprise. “Who the hell would bring a kid into this?” Bucky’s expression is black with rage.

“Stark,” is all Sam says in response.

The three of you hustle from the terminal, running full tilt to catch up with the others. You coalesce and for a moment it actually feels like you’re going to make it to the jet, like just maybe this is going to work. That fleeting hope is severed when a beam from somewhere above you blasts a literal line into the tarmac.

You stumble back a bit into Bucky’s arms. He presses you tight against him as you both look up to see someone straight out of science fiction--Vision, Steve called him.

Even with the quite literal line drawn you all know there is no turning back now. There is too much at risk if you do.

Bucky’s arms tighten almost imperceptibly before releasing you, gesturing for you to take Wanda’s side. You do so, the two of you exchanging a meaningful glance.

“What’d we do Cap?” Sam asks, though his tone says he knows the answer as well as the rest of you.

“We fight,” Steve replies joylessly.

Everything that follows happens so fast.

You and Wanda fall into a fast rhythm, tag-teaming the aerial targets by lobbing projectiles in an attempt to ground them. While your aim is excellent her force far outweighs yours.

“I’ll hold you land the hit,” you call to her. She nods. You grip the kid mid-swing and she slams a piece of debris into him knocking him down. “Damn you’re good!”

“You’re not too bad either,” she grins.

Before you turn your focus to Rhodes you glance around to spot Bucky. He’s going hard blow for blow with T’Challa.

Wanda and you exchange a glance. She nods and you split.

Running at a dead sprint you try to catch T’Challa’s next blow before it finds it’s target, but you’re too slow. He lands a kick that sends Bucky careening into a stack of crates with a sickening crack.

T’Challa stalks forward, blocking your view of Bucky’s collapsed body, with claws out. There is no time to consider if Bucky is even conscious. He’ll kill him, is the only thought you have.

Sending your power out to T’Challa, you’re surprised to only find purchase on the surface, unable to sink under his suit to do any internal harm. It doesn’t matter though.

Mustering a level of force that sends shivers through your body you hurl him away from Bucky. T’Challa rights himself in the air landing gracefully, claws sparking against the concrete, as you place yourself between Bucky’s unconscious form and him.

“You,” he growls. The word barely hits your ear before he charges.

His attacks are painfully quick with a fluidity you’ve never encountered. Even Bucky wasn’t this good. He lands several blows but your power reacts instinctively, cushioning them enough that you aren’t brought down. Soon you are able to hone in on his rhythm, managing several good moments of contact yourself.

“This isn’t about you!”

“It is if it’s about him,” you spit back.

He roars in frustration, his leg swinging to kick your feet from under you. It’s the slightest bit less refined than his other moves, nowhere near sloppy but it’s enough that you’re able to clock it quickly. You kick away from the ground, landing behind him.

This gives you the advantage you need. You manage a well-placed blow to the backs of his knees and he falls forward. Winding your power around his middle you squeeze tight enough to hear a small gasp and force him away.

You only glance behind you for a breath, just wanting to see if Bucky was ok. The relief from seeing him get to his feet doesn’t have the chance to sink in. Turning back all to the fight before you all you register is a block blur before searing pain tears through your chest.

“Y/N!” Bucky screams.

But you don’t make a sound. Your eyes are fixed on the splashes of red spattering the concrete as you hit your knees, still not registering that it’s yours despite the pain. A shaking hand rises to your chest, coming away covered in blood from four deep gouges.

A feral sound draws your eyes up to see Bucky attacking T’Challa with a ferocity you’ve never seen. Still, he holds Bucky back until you see a red cloud grab hold of him, throwing him away.

“Doll!” Bucky calls out, running to your side. He grabs your shoulders, jostling the wounds on your chest.

Now you scream.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

“I’ve got her,” Wanda’s voice from behind you. It’s strange to be moved like this by a force that’s not your own. Wanda’s power—red, warm, tingling like static—gently moves you, resting your back against the crates Bucky had been thrown against a moment before.

“Y/N’s down,” Bucky says in a tight voice.

“I’m ok,” you say through clenched teeth. “Go.” Wanda gives you one last look before listening. Unsurprisingly Bucky doesn’t budge. “Bucky-”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, unable to take his eyes from the wounds in your chest.

His hands hover awkwardly over you, unsure where to touch you to avoid causing more pain. He settles on resting a tentative hand on your thigh. When he finally looks you in the face his expression is something you’ve never seen—a terrifying combination of utter fear and abject rage.

“Holy shit,” Steve breathes as he crouches next to you both.

“’ Tis but a scratch,” you say attempting to sit up straighter. Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Seriously, I’m going to be fine.” And you suspected you weren’t lying, the blood had already slowed some even if it hurt like hell.

“How’re we gonna get her to the jet?” Steve asks. You’re a little touched by the deep concern in his tone.

“We aren’t,” Sam says over the comms.

“What?!” Bucky bellows so loud you flinch.

“There’s no way all of us are getting out of here,” Sam responds.

“As much as I hate to admit that Wilson’s right-”

“He is right,” you cut off the rest of Clint’s words covering Bucky’s hand with yours. “You two have to go.”

“No,” his voice shakes.

“We’ve got her back,” Sam reassures.

“Absolutely,” Clint says backing him.

“Don’t ask me to do this,” Bucky choaks out.

With a shaking blood-stained hand, you push a strand of hair from his eyes. “This is bigger than us.”

“Dammit,” he says through clenched teeth. “Fine. Ok.”

“Alright, Lang,” Steve confers over the comms, having been laying out a plan while you convinced Bucky. “On your mark.”

“Help me up,” you ask Bucky.

“You really should-”

“I’d rather be on my feet.” Begrudgingly, he helps you stand on shaky legs.

Leaning into Bucky for support, you watch in wonder as Lang becomes the size of a jet. An awestruck laugh bubbles up before you can stop it, moving the muscles in your chest causing you to hiss in pain.

“Y/N?” Bucky asks, tone frantic. You pat his chest reassuringly.

“Guess that’s the signal,” Steve throws a look at you both.

Bucky’s eyes are desperate, still, you say, “Go.”

He takes your face in his hands, kissing you deeply before pulling back. “I love you.”

“I love all of you.”

“Remember your promise.” It’s not a question.

You nod, “Don’t make me keep it and I won’t make you.”

“Deal,” he says with a sad smile.

“We gotta go,” Steve says.

Bucky backs away from you slowly before turning to run. The wounds in your chest nothing compared to the hurt of watching him go.

Your fight isn’t done. Cradling your left arm across your chest, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure on the wound you start to make your way forward.

“Nope,” Clint drops down in front of you. “Sit your ass down.”

“I-” He cuts you off with a look and you lean against the crates until he’s satisfied. It only lasts until you see the blast from Vision sending debris tumbling to block Bucky and Steve’s entry to the jet.

You hardly breathe as you run, pain searing through your chest, clouding your vision. Wanda catches everything giving them enough space to get through before Rhodes hits her with something sending her to her knees.

Anger swells within you, momentarily taking place of the pain. You heave Rhodes away from Wanda before collapsing yourself. Clint rushes to your side, holding you up.

“What did I say?”

“I’m a bad listener.”

“Clearly.” He positions himself behind you so you’re able to lean into him.

The jet bursts from the hanger and you feel yourself relax. They can do this, they can fix this. Steve will bring him back.

“What now?” You ask Clint.

“We wait.”

None of you fight back when military police descend on the airstrip knowing this is what you signed up for by staying. Medical whisks Rhodes away and sees to the kid in the spider suit while you sit on the tarmac bleeding, breathing through the pain.

“Anyone, gonna get to her?!” Sam berates the officers.

“It’s fine Sam.”

“It’s not. You’ve lost a lot of blood, Y/N.” He looks around, “Hey! Come on!”

“That’s enough,” one of them remarks before grabbing Sam’s arms and forcefully cuffing them behind his back.

Hands come from behind you as well, grabbing your forearms and wrenching your arms behind you. You can’t hold in the scream as the motion pulls the gashes across your chest open wide, fresh blood seeping into your ruined shirt.

A chorus of anger rises from your ragtag team, though the words are lost in the onslaught of pain. That is until someone kneels in front of you, pressing a clean towel to your chest.

“Thank… you,” you manage, trying to gulp in air.

“You’re welcome,” a woman’s voice says. “Maybe don’t head butt me this time.” You look up to see Romanoff.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Your eyes squeeze shut as your body sways from blood loss.

She steadies you, pressing the towel tighter against your chest. “What is Barnes to you that he’s worth this.”

You look up into her vivid green eyes, mind clear suddenly. “Everything.”

She stares for a moment to see if there’s more before her brows raise. “Oh… Oh.” Natasha looks back as a jet lands, a few official-looking men stepping off.

“Can we get medical over here? She needs to be seen to,” Natasha says as they approach.

“She’ll be seen on the jet,” an older gentleman says in a grave tone.

“Secretary Ross,” Natasha places herself between you and the man.

“This the only injury on this side?”

“Side? This isn’t a war, Secretary.”

“Isn’t it?” He steps around her, looking down at you. You unflinchingly meet his gaze.

“Secretary, with all due respect, this woman needs-”

“Wilson, I suggest you shut your mouth unless you intend to tell me where Barnes and Rogers are heading.” The Secretary gives everyone a once over, “Load them up.”

Everyone but you is locked into their seat on the jet. As you climb in altitude your head swims and you fold forward.

“Sit back,” Clint says gently. “You want to keep your heart elevated.”

You force yourself back, head thudding painfully into the metal of the chair behind you.

Secretary Ross enters, a med-tech behind him pushing a cart. He stands stoically, looking down at every person in the room. The tech approaches you, irrigation bottle in hand.

“Come on,” Sam grumbles. “Can’t you at least see her in a med bay?”

“She’s lucky she’s being seen at all,” Ross says in a chilling tone.

He watches as the tech soaks the towel, removing it from your chest, despite the ache you refuse to make a noise. You’d had enough interactions with men like this Ross character to know that you never show them an ounce of fear or weakness.

The tech studies your wounds for a moment hands working swiftly to attach a blood pressure monitor to your wrist. He looks at the reading, brows creasing in disapproval.

“Blood type?” He asks.

“AB.” He takes a note before turning a more focused gaze to the gashes.

“We’re going to have to cut the shirt off, likely fibers in the wound.” He turns to the cart and shuffles around, when he turns back there’s a needle in his hand. The blood pressure monitor on your wrist begins to beep as your heart ticks up, the increased blood flow making your chest throb.

“What is that?” You ask, hating the way your voice trembles slightly. Flashes of countless needles being forced into your veins fill your mind.

“Morphine.” He reaches for your arm and you pull back as far into the chair as possible.

“No.”

“Ma’am,” he sighs out clearly annoyed. “You’re gonna need sutures-”

“I don’t need drugs. I’ll be-”

“I don’t think you understand how much this is going to-”

“I’ve had worse,” you say matter of factly.

“Give her the damn sedative,” Ross demands.

“She said no,” Wanda says. Ross turns an indignant gaze her way.

The tech moves to try and administer it again but you latch your power onto the syringe in his hand, crushing it. He stares, confused and a little scared at the liquid dripping down his arm.

“Maximoff,” Ross starts but then pauses. Slowly he turns back to look at the shattered remains, seeming to realize that Wanda’s signature red glow didn’t accompany that action.

His cold stare lands on you. “Just get her cleaned up Aarons.”

“Yessir.”

Ross storms off, pausing at the exit, “I will deal with all of you on the Raft.”

Aarons pulls two small folding stools from the cart and guides you into one with surprising gentleness. With your back facing the others he cuts open your shirt. You hear him let out a puff of breath as he sees the scars there.

You have to hand it to him, Aarons works quickly, truly trying to not cause more discomfort than necessary. His eyes search yours on occasion, especially in moments he expects you to grimace or show pain.

He finishes bandaging you up and guides you back to the chair. “Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to place your arms in a position to be manacled. You say nothing, simply do as you’re told.

“You’ll need a transfusion. I’ll try to get to that before we land.”

“Thanks,” you say. He nods and leaves.

They do not get to it. Not that it matters much. You know your body will heal, whatever Hydra had filled you with would ensure that. Your heart though…

Already the distance and uncertainty weigh heavily. Every few minutes you have to talk yourself down, silently coaching yourself that he will be ok, he must be ok. They will succeed. But if they didn’t… Well, your broken heart would be the least of the world’s concerns then.

As soon as they land on The Raft you’re shuffled out with the rest. Until now you didn’t understand what The Raft was—a prison, a floating prison for the worst the world had to offer. When you’d agreed that some of you would have to hold back you’d assumed they’d put you all somewhere but never this.

They march you all down a long corridor, opening into a large space where several other corridors branch off. Everyone else is led to the right while they jostle you to the left. Terror makes alarms sound in your mind but your expression stays impassive.

“Where are you taking her?!” Sam calls out. “Hey, wait!” There’s a thud, you look back to see Sam doubled over, his eyes look up and meet your own. You shake your head no as they lead you away.

He means well, but you have a feeling he’s never been a prisoner before. You on the other hand… you were a seasoned pro—captivity almost felt like an old, unwelcome, friend. The key was to give them nothing. Not fear, not anger, not even respect. The key was to become… nothing.

Comply.

Survive.

You’re left in a cold room, cuffed to a metal chair--still with nothing more covering your torso than bandages and a blood-stained sports bra--for an indiscriminate amount of time.

You don’t move, barely flick your eyes around the space, just stare forward. Because you don’t need to move to know your surroundings.

Sending your power out you find the small pinhole cameras embedded in the metal walls, you feel just beyond those walls other rooms. You push it a bit further, into the corridor, to get a feel for the activity happening around you, and keep your focus there so you will know when someone is entering.

Is it muscle memory that keeps you stiff, upright, expression impassive? You’re bone-tired and should be fighting sleep in this quiet space, body demanding shut down. But no. You’re alert, ready at any moment for anything.

You aren’t startled when the door behind you opens, don’t even turn to look back. It’s not until Ross sits in a chair across the metal table from you that you realize you’d been bracing your body for a blow or the crackling feeling of a shock baton.

He doesn’t say anything, studying you with a cold appraising glare. After a time he nods to unseen eyes and images fill the wall behind him.

At first these photos of a woman going about mundane daily tasks—waiting for a train her hair in a messy bun, head thrown back in a laugh with friends around her, standing on a street corner impossibly balancing bags of food and four drinks, sitting on a bench looking out at the water—mean nothing to you. Just still life images.

Clarity careens into you like a freight train. It takes effort to keep your impassive mask in place as you stare. That woman… that was you.

How did you not immediately see yourself? How could you not see Nix, a portion of his Cheshire-like grin captured on the edge of one image? How did you not recognize the bright pink of Marcus’ hair in another? How?

Suddenly they’re gone. You want to beg them to bring them back, let you see just the smallest glimpses of the people you lost, the person you were. But you don’t. You sit, like a statue, as a video begins to play.

A woman with long thick curls hanging around her face stares down an unseen person with a look that could strip paint— That’s me, you remind yourself. The audio is a bit crackly but you can make out the sound of your own voice well enough.

“I suggest you back off, mother fucker,” this past you growls.

The camera becomes a blur, the sounds of scuffling and fabric obscuring a mic are all that can be heard for a time until—

A loud thud and a groan ring clear, the image clears revealing you staring down at your hands and back at the man. You look horrified and confused, a bit of blood trickling from a busted lip.

Memory cracks through you like lightning. This was only a few weeks before they took a wrecking ball to your entire life. You’d run home and Nix had been furious that you refused to go to the cops until you told him what you did, how your ability lashed out. There was no more arguing after that, he understood the necessity of this secret.

Nix helped you get cleaned up, ordered pizza, and braided your hair while you both watched old movies into the wee hours. You could almost feel his sure fingers finding their way through your curls, weaving them together in tight plaits.

Ross’ voice pulls you back from the void of loss threatening to engulf you, “When Ms. Romanoff released Hydra’s files to the public we took special interest in cases like yours. Of course, we assumed that you’d been put down… Reaper.”

That fucking name. The code Hydra gave you. You hate that you flinch just a bit from it. Hate the burn of bile in your throat.

“Or do you prefer Sara Madison?” The name you’d taken at 16 when you started a new life. “Or is it Y/N Y/L/N?” The name you’d been born with. New images flash onto the wall behind him. These faces you recognize instantly.

“I’m sure they’d all say, Reaper, is far more appropriate.”

It takes everything to fight the nausea, to keep the tremors at bay. Don’t give him the satisfaction, you tell yourself.

“Nineteen confirmed kills. Given your methods, I don’t doubt there are more.” He opens a folder and lays out several more faces you know. “Heart attack, brain aneurysm, stroke—nothing suspicious about natural death.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “It’s a masterclass, truly.”

Such a good attack dog, that Hydra bastard’s voice rings in your head.

“All of this is enough for us to try you on everything from first-degree murder to treason. I can assure you that it will not end well for you.” He moves his hands into his lap, “But, we’d be willing to reconsider legal action if you’d simply tell us where Barnes and Rogers are.”

You almost laugh. Instead, you just raise a brow, continuing to stare straight at him. The quick flash of anger in Ross’ eyes fills you with satisfaction.

He takes a deep breath, his own composure falling back in place, and stands, circling behind you. A heavy hand lands on your left shoulder, fingers reaching around to the tops of the freshly stitched wounds there. Slowly but steadily he applies pressure to them, pain exploding. You grind your teeth, fighting the scream.

“I should also inform you,” Ross growls into your ear, “that for all rights and purposes you don’t exist. A trial would be a formality.” His grip tightens suddenly and you can’t hold back the hiss of pain.

“Personally,” his other hand grabs your hair, forcing your head back to look up at him, “I would rather not waste taxpayer dollars on trying things like you and Barnes. If you push me, I’m sure I can find creative ways to extract the information we need.”

You can’t fully place why your face fills with a smirk or why it grows into a full smile. Maybe you’re delirious with pain and exhaustion because the smile breaks out into a belly laugh. It hurts your chest but you can’t stop. Ross’ backhand cracking across your face doesn’t even stop it. Peals of laughter pour from you.

“Lock her up,” he barks to someone behind you.

Rough hands grab you, dragging you from the room. You’re still smirking when they unceremoniously toss you into a cell.

Stumbling forward you barely catch yourself before crashing into the wall. You rest your forehead against the cool metal until your knees refuse to hold you any longer. Turning you lean against the wall and slide down it.

Across from your cell you can just see the edge of Wanda’s. She’s staring into your cell intently, arms bound in a goddamn straight jacket. Anger flairs in you—she couldn’t be more than 20 for fuck’s sake.

She gestures to her chest with her chin then nods at you. Glancing down you notice that blood has soaked through the bandages there. You give her a weak smile and a thumbs up. She rolls her eyes and a true smile lifts the corners of your mouth.

Muffled sounds outside the cell wake you. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized you’d fallen asleep on the hard floor.

It takes a moment for your eyes to focus in on what they’re seeing—Wanda fighting back against guards trying to take her somewhere. She can’t use her ability without her hands you realize. Still, she kicks and thrashes, anything to slow them.

You stand legs wobbling a bit, and approach the glass and metal door to your cell, letting your anger rise with each step. Taking as deep a breath as you can manage you push a wave of your power out. Unfortunately, it catches Wanda’s footing too but it’s enough to get their attention.

Startled eyes slide around the room, unsure of where to focus their anger. One of the men stand and you immediately throw him back. Another does the same and you toss him aside, truly surprised at the amount of force you’re able to muster.

This continues on for a minute before a flurry of new guards, led by Ross, pour into the cellblock.

“What the hell is-” You grab Ross before he can finish and slam him against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. He stares at you, hatred dripping from him.

“Leave her alone. She doesn’t know shit.”

Ross clears his throat, “You ready to talk?”

You shrug, “Thought you wanted to get creative.” Ross nods at you and they open your cell, dragging you out.

“No!” Wanda yells as they push her back into her cell.

“It’s ok,” you tell her over your shoulder.

While you didn’t doubt that the US Government could be very imaginative you did doubt they were true masters like Hydra. And if they were…you could take it, you already had before. All you needed to do was keep Ross distracted enough that he stayed off of Wanda and the others.

It was the least you owed them.

Tag List:

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky x enhanced!reader #civil war #CACW #captain america

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bisexualfelicity · 5 years ago

Text

No Other Version of Me - Chapter Two

Amalia Queen was once said to be so important that the universe made sure she happened. Yes, it was her mom who said that but it still counts. Now, she's an adult and struggles to be worthy of such sentence. She doesn't want to be a vigilante and make so many sacrifices like the rest of her family, but it doesn't mean she doesn't want to save the world.

Sequel to "Five Lives"

Next Gen, not canon compliant.

Previous chapters on AO3

“I think you got the wrong place, the bunker is on the other side of town,” Amalia hates how bitter she sounds, but can’t help it.

Naila doesn’t seem affected by it though. Amalia expects her to look hurt over it, maybe try to say there was no need for that, but the other girl seems completely indifferent to Amalia’s tone, inspecting her room and settling on top of her bed.

“I need your help,” she repeats, as if Amalia hadn’t heard the first time. “Samyia is in danger.”

“What have I got to do with that?”

“I need help rescuing her,” she says.

“I’m not a part of the team. Have never been. Did you forget that?” Amalia asks, hurt giving place to confusion. “Besides, we already know that. Team Arrow has been talking to Sara, everything is already handled.”

Continue reading under the cut or on AO3

“I didn’t come to ask for the team’s help. I’ve come to ask for yours. I know our parents are working together and they have a plan. This is not about that.”

“What is it about then?”

“They are not accepting my help. They think it’s too dangerous, considering…” she doesn’t end her sentence and Amalia does not ask what she means, she’s more curious about how she fits in all of this. “But I know going there is the best chance to get Samyia out safely.”

“That sounds like a discussion you should be having with the rest of the team, Naila. If you don’t mind, it’s late, I’ve had a long day and would like to rest now.”

“Mali, please,” the nickname only makes Amalia less inclined to listen to her, but Naila doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, “Just listen to me. I’m not asking you to do anything crazy, I just need someone to watch my back while I go save Samyia. The others won’t risk it, but I know you’ll do what is right.”

Amalia stays quiet, trying to understand what was happening. She very much wants Naila to leave her room, so she can just think about all of that. Half of what she was saying doesn’t even make sense. And besides why come to her? Amalia is not a vigilante. She’s trained, of course, she needs to know how to defend herself and it had been needed over the years, but she’s not used to being in combat and would rather be safe at home.

“I’m sure if you explain your side they are going to understand.”

“Why don’t you ever listen to what I’m saying? They won’t. Don’t you think I tried? Do you think coming here was my first option?”

While Amalia herself thought it was not logical to ask for her help, it still hurts when Naila put it like that.

“Why don’t they want you going?” Amalia asks, trying to decide if it’s even worth losing her time like that.

“It’s a long story. Maybe… Maybe I can tell you later. Will you help me if I tell you?”

“Of course not. I’m pretty sure the best way I can help you is by getting out of the way,” Amalia says, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows.

“Fine. I see you’re still mad at me. I thought you were a lot of things, Amalia, but I never thought you’d be that selfish to deny help to someone you once called your friend.”

“I called you a lot of things, but, guess what, when you end a conversation by disappearing for five years you lose any right to complain!”

“I didn’t come here to complain. And I definitely didn’t come here to have a repeat of that fight, okay? I’m here because I’m desperate! I’m here because my sister is gone and she’s going to do something very stupid and if I don’t go people are going to get hurt. I know you care, Amalia, you can’t have changed that much.”

Amalia stays quiet at that. Tears are burning in her eyes but she refuses to let them fall, she is not a teen anymore, she’s over this. It is true that she cares, she cares about Naila, she cares about whatever is happening with Samyia, she cares about anyone possibly getting hurt and she cares about whether she is being selfish or not.

She likes helping people. She built her entire life so she could help as many people as she could. Being called selfish and sounding like she didn’t really care about the outcome of all of that? That damages her core. That’s not who she wants to be. And Naila knows it very well, Amalia is not naïve enough to think Naila didn’t use these words on purpose, the girl is trying to manipulate her and knows how to do it well.

“Here’s what I can do,” she finally says and almost shivers as she sees the hope in Naila’s eyes. “I will go to you with the bunker, I’ll help you convince them to hear you…”

“No! That’s not what I said,” Naila interrupts her, the hope giving way to anger and impatience. “Sara is going to arrive at any minute. She can’t know I’m here.”

“Your mom can’t know you’re here? What the fuck did you get into?”

“Look, are you going to help me or not? I don’t have enough time for this.”

“Then go. I didn’t ask for any of that. You didn’t say anything good enough to convince me I should go with you. I don’t even know what I’m dealing with and if you’re hiding that from Sara, I’m not sure you’re even on the right side.”

“Fine. You don’t trust me anymore, I guess I deserve it. Just… Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

Before Amalia can even think about answering her, Naila gets up from the bed and heads to the window. Naila looks back at her and Amalia thinks of saying she could just leave through the door, but it sounds like the wrong thing to say – and she doesn’t really want to explain to her friends in the living room what is going on – so she says nothing. Naila doesn’t say anything else either, just stares at Amalia and goes through the window, disappearing into the night. There is no anger in her face, but there is something there and it takes Amalia too long to realize what it is.

Disappointment.

Amalia tries to forget this meeting ever happened. She puts her pajamas on, goes to the living room, joining her friends in watching TV and laughing for the rest of the night and, when it’s day again, she throws herself in work and pushes thoughts of Naila as far as she can. There might be a part of her that is a little over the edge for the next day, but if her coworkers ask what’s got her in a mood, she’ll definitely just smile and says she has no idea what they mean.

Maybe she activates notifications on many news websites and keeps checking to see if anything comes up, but if that’s the case it’s certainly because she’s a concerned citizen and why shouldn’t she care about what happens in the world? She likes being updated. There’s nothing wrong with that.

But all the lies can’t hide forever from her mind. Her fast heartbeat is a constant reminder that she’s anxious and she has reasons to be. Did Naila talk to the team? To her mom at least? Did she go alone? Have they saved Samyia? Is everyone okay? She can only assume nothing terrible has happened or else she would have heard about it by now… Right?

By Friday, her phone aches next to her. Emma is on a date and Ilana always goes to her parents’ for shabbat dinner, so she finds herself alone in her apartment after work with nothing to do but wonder. Sure, she has other friends, she has stuff she meant to do, there’s always more work waiting for her, but it’s been 48 hours and she hasn’t heard anything and she can’t stand waiting like this all weekend.

Amalia is debating which family member she should call when she gets a message from Mom asking about having lunch together the next day. She confirms it, telling herself it doesn’t mean anything. Nobody is in the hospital. Mom would have just said that otherwise.

She considers herself a practical person most of the time, but can barely recognize herself now. The practical thing would be to just call literally anyone in the family and be done with this, ask everything they know and satisfy her curiosity. Even following her instincts again and showing up on the bunker would be more practical than laying in bed for hours, thinking of the worst scenarios and then arguing in her mind about how unlikely it is that it would happen. But it’s too much; she can’t move.

The night goes on like this. Amalia has spent sleepless nights before, many during college, a few having fun, but never because she was too worried to relax. Just close your eyes and think of nothing, it isn’t that hard. Except her brain won’t shut up, no matter how she says that it’s too late now and everyone else is asleep, nothing is going to happen until the morning. But what is going to happen in the morning?

When did she become that person?

Amalia is about to have a full identity crisis by the time the sun comes up. She tries to sleep one last time, fails to do it, meditates with an app she just downloaded and eats breakfast. It’s the longest she manages to stall before heading to her parents’ house, ready to just face the truth, whatever it is.

She lets herself in without ringing the bell and finds that she can already breathe better just by being in her family’s home. The house is completely silent and Amalia assumes everyone is still asleep. Not thinking much about it, she goes to her old room, lays in her bed and closes her eyes. For a moment, she thinks she might actually sleep this time and wouldn’t that be ironic? But her insomnia doesn’t have much of a sense of humor and doesn’t give up just because she’s home.

Meredith, the cat, soon joins her in the bed, meowing at Amalia’s face, either asking for cuddles or complaining it’s been too long since she visited last week. Amalia really misses the cat and wishes she could steal Meredith and go home. Life would be much better if she had her cat with her. But Mom would be really angry if she did it and Libbi would definitely steal her back. Meredith didn’t need that kind of stress.

Amalia is telling all of this to the cat, hugging the cat against her will, when she hears a knock on the door.

“Mali? What are you doing here so early?” Dad asks as he comes into the room and sits next to her in the bed. Finding the bed too crowded, Meredith decides to leave.

“Lunch,” she says not answering it at all.

It shouldn’t surprise her that her dad is up and dressed like he had just came back from running. Dad had never been one to sleep a lot and is getting worse every year, of course she wouldn’t be able to arrive before he woke up. Dad just stares at her, waiting for her to complete.

“Couldn’t sleep, sorry,” she’s stalling to ask and kinda wished Mom was here, because she’d just try to guess what is happening instead of looking at her and respecting her time. “I need to know what happened.”

Dad seems surprised by it, like he had no idea she even suspected anything. He sighs and stays silent for a bit, but Amalia doesn’t pressure him, she knows he’s trying to find the right words and she’s not sure she wants to hear them. Her thoughts start spiraling and she only focus again once Dad touches her shoulder, steadying her.

“The League asked for our help on a mission,” he starts, Amalia just nods even though part of her wants to say she already knows that and he can just fast forward to what happened. “They had been dealing with a threat and Samyia was captured in action. Their enemies are based just outside Star City and we could help retrieve her so they could go back safely to Nanda Parbat…” Dad pauses and she knows the worst is to come. “We had everything ready to go, but then Sara found out Naila went alone without back up when she was supposed to stay behind. I’m sorry, Mali, but Naila was captured as well.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she’s missing. We’re still going to try to get them back, but you have to know… Naila was what they were after. Samyia was being used as blackmail. There’s no way of knowing what they intend on doing to Naila now that they have her.”

She tries to breathe in and out and not freak out, she tells herself she was expecting it. Yes, Naila was taken. Of course she was taken. Because she had no back up and she had literally told Amalia that she needed someone to watch her back. They wanted Naila, this is why Sara or the Team wouldn’t let her help. They were scared this would happen.

She should have gone with her. Or, better yet, she should have told her family or Sara what Naila was doing.

“It’s going to be okay, honey, breathe with me,” Dad is saying besides her, his hands comforting in her back, breathing slowly and waiting until she did she same. “I know you care about her, Mali, but we’re going to bring her back safely. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Don’t worry?! How am I going to do it when it’s all my fault?”

August 2036

When Amalia finds Naila standing in her living room, her first thought is that someone died and she’s here for another funeral. She can hear her parents’ voices echoing through the house, laughing with Sara, so she assures herself that nothing bad happened again. Naila looks uncomfortable, sitting alone on the sofa in an extremely poised way, but Amalia makes no movement to join her.

Last time they’ve talked to each other it was Quentin Lance’s funeral and it was not a good day. Amalia had heard about Naila since, Becky commented about her cousins and Naila had been in Star City a few times since, but never in her house. Amalia doesn’t know what her presence means and doesn’t like it.

She knows why Sara is here: because everything sucks right now. There have always been bad guys creeping around, always some danger, but it got worse. She doesn’t know who’s behind, she thinks there are superpowers involved but she’s not sure and she honestly doesn’t want to know. All she wants is to forget that this is her life.

But she can’t. Because Uncle Roy died and she had to look at her little cousin Elliot and know that it could have been her without a dad. And then Laurel got hurt last month and still hasn’t recovered. She knew it was only time before something happened to her parents and then it did. Her dad was thrown from a bridge and could barely leave the bed now.

She knows she’s lucky. Dad’s at home, when he could very well had ended up in the hospital or in a coffin. If it served for anything, they should all have just learned that vigilantism is not worth it.

But instead Sara showed up. Not just to see her sister and make sure this side of the family was okay, but to fill in for Dad in Team Arrow.

And she’s bringing her daughter? That is just weird.

Amalia is still standing in the door when Naila looks directly at her, not saying anything. Amalia tries to smile but Naila doesn’t bother to copy her, staring with curious eyes. Not knowing what to do, Amalia decides to join Naila at the sofa, sitting next to the girl, still silent.

“So.. You’re visiting Laurel?” Amalia asks, trying to start a conversation.

“We’ve visited her yesterday, we’re visiting your parents now,” Naila says, frowning and Amalia can’t help but laugh at that answer. “Sara wanted me to meet you. I’m Naila,” she extends her hand and Amalia finds herself shaking it even though it feels weird to shake hands with someone her age.

“I know that. I’m Amalia. We’ve met already.”

“I remember, but we weren’t formally introduced then. I’d like to get acquainted with you since I will be attending school where you go comes September.”

“Are you… staying in Starling?”

“Yes, Nyssa and Samyia are going to continue in Nanda Parbat for most of the time, but it was decided that I should accompany Sara while she’s here. Sara thought I would enjoy experimenting formal education, so I am here.”

“Did you not go to school there?”

“I had lessons with my moms and other members, but there isn’t anyone else my age in the League, so no school.”

Amalia frowns at that. No wonder the girl sounds so weird if she doesn’t interact with anyone their age. Amalia could only imagine how shocking would be to suddenly start high school with hundreds of teenagers, well, being teenagers. Amalia had some difficulty belonging there and she had studied with those people her entire life.

“I can help you around in school,” Amalia offers, “I can introduce you to my friends and we can hang out, if you want that is.”

“That would be lovely,” Naila smiles for the first time and her whole face transforms, she seems so happy at that moment that Amalia for a moment thinks she has offered more than just helping in school.

Naila is looking at her expectantly, waiting for Amalia to continue the conversation. Later, Amalia will be able to pinpoint this as the exact moment she decided to befriend Naila. They’d have to be friendly with each other anyway, Naila didn’t know anyone else in the school and it’d be the right thing to do; but it’d be easier if it was something genuine and not a friendship out of parental obligation. It’s the bright in her brown eyes and the way she blushes after smiling that sticks for Amalia, the red hardly apparent in her sand skin. Naila looks shy in a way that Amalia has never pegged Sara and Nyssa’s daughter for.

“Tell me about Nanda Parbat, what do you usually do there?”

While Naila talk about her life, Amalia can’t help but find it all fascinating and soon they are able to maintain a conversation without much awkwardness. Naila takes a while to be comfortable, but by the time their parents arrive in the room, it’s clear that Felicity won’t have to ask Amalia to hang out with Naila, they have already made their own plans.

Amalia thinks of her two best friends, trying to think of how to introduce Naila and wondering if they have a good backstory planned. Amalia is not ready to explain to her friends what the League of Assassins is and how she’s associated with then. Luckily for them, Amalia is a great liar and has been doing that since she was young enough to talk.

Somehow, even though she sounded like she was from a different world, Naila would fit right in her life.

#olicity fic #olicity fanfiction #nyssara #olicity #olicitysquee #arrow fic #arrow

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planetsam · 6 years ago

Note

hi! i love your writing!! if it's okay, can you please write a bit of a canon divergent fic for 1x03 where alex decides to push his fears aside and stay and allow michael to reveal their relationship to isobel when she turns up??

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Michael asks.

“Yes!” Alex says.

Michael’s face falls and then shuts down. But the panic has already set in. He can hear the car getting closer and he looks around desperately as Michael shakes his head. He knows he’s disappointed him and he’ll deal with that, but right now he has to get out of there before anyone sees him.

“Guerin—“

“Forget it,” Michael snaps, pulling his jeans up.

“No!” Michael turns at his voice, “I can’t find—“ he looks around, he’s not going to fucking fall apart, “I can’t find my—“

“Your what?” Michael’s frustration is gone, or pushed back, replaced by concern that Alex doesn’t want to see on his face. He doesn’t need anyone’s pity. Least of all a man that his father maimed, “what can’t you find?”

He really is useless.

Alex feels something give viciously in his stomach. It’s completely pathetic that he’s sitting here trying not to sob because the lubricant for his sleeve is impossible to find in the tangle of blankets. These stupid little things keep setting him off. It’s a wonder that anyone wanted to be around him at all, broken as he is, and now he’s gone and shown the truth. Michael is going to be out that door in a second. Alex knows it’s a weakness, that he has to leave first. But at least then he doesn’t have to hear about how unlovable he is. How broken. How he can’t even fucking leave the bed now.

“There’s a lubricant,” he gets out.

“Okay,” Michael says, grabbing his jacket and handing it to him to look through. He looks through the bed. “I don’t see it,” he says, “what was in it? I might have something that works.”

“I don’t—“ he whips towards the door as the sound of the car stopping echoes.

“Hang on,” Michael says and opens the door just enough to get his head around, “now’s a bad time Iz!”

“God, Michael, gross. Is she almost dressed?”

“Uh uh, you gotta go. No walks of shame from the air stream—“

“Well she’s obviously walking away from an air stream so—“

“So she doesn’t need to see you leaning there with that expression. Off you go.”

The car starts and Alex buries his face in his hoodie. He’s not going to break down here. His problem is always that once he gets past a certain point it’s impossibly hard to stop. The door closes and he knows that Michael is watching him. He does his best to scrub his face. This is fine. He’ll take advantage of however long he has and it won’t be that bad. The lubricant just makes it more comfortable, it’s not a necessity. He doesn’t know why he forgot that.

Michael crouches in front of him.

“I’m fine.” He says, fumbling with the sleeve before Michael puts his hands on his leg, “it’ll be fine for a minute,” he says, “I have to get out of here before someone sees—“

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” Michael protests.

“I don’t care,” Alex says, “let go,” Michael’s hands aren’t moving, “Guerin let go!”

“Not if you’re gonna hurt yourself!” Michael repeats, his voice rising to match his, “Alex stop!”

“No!”

He pushes Michael off of him and fumbles the sleeve up, shoving his leg in. He staggers to his feet. Shirt, he needs a shirt. The car is coming back any second and he needs a shirt before it gets here. In his haste he knocks something over and the bang of it hitting the ground makes him jump and smack a hand over his mouth. He’s seventeen again. He expects that bang to be followed by a scream, by his dad, by everything that happened the last time someone found him with Michael in a place like this.

“Alex, Alex!” Michael turns him around, both hands clapped onto his shoulders, “look at me, look at me, I’m right here. We’re fine, okay? We’re fine. We’re not doing anything wrong.” He shakes his head, “yes,” Michael says, “it’s Isobel. It’s my sister. That’s it.”

“I’m not ready,” he blurts out.

“Not ready for what?” Michael asks, concern and confusion on his face as he looks at him, “Alex—“

“I can’t even walk,” Alex gets out.

“But,” Michael’s brows draw together in confusion. He looks around the air stream and at the bed where they’ve been spending most of their time. Without any clothes on. Alex waits for the lightbulb moment. The disgust. “Have you done this—“

“Not since,” he says.

“What?” Michael stares at him, that look of confusion and offense coming onto his face. Michael is so smart, sometimes it taking a moment for him to understand is personally offensive to him, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to be normal,” Alex says.

Michael gives a snort of laughter but there’s a self deprecating edge to it that now has Alex being in confusion. He doesn’t know why normal is funny to Michael but at the moment he can’t puzzle that. He tries to focus on anything but the panic and he picks the thumbs Michael is rubbing against his elbows. Michael’s already been hurt. He’s already missing his leg. The damage is already done. Michael pulls him close and presses their foreheads together moments before the car pulls up. Alex pulls away and fumbles into his hoodie. His prosthetic might not be comfortable but he doesn’t feel like being naked now.

“Hang on,” Michael says and opens the door, “Iz—“

“No! Get rid of her this is important!” Isobel says, “don’t give me that look. There’s plenty of girls around here who don’t know what a full shirt is for you to be disgusting with.”

“I’m serious Iz this isn’t a good time!” Michael says, his voice taking on an angry, defensive tone.

“Are you embarrassed to have your big sister see who you brought home?” She asks.

“Iz!”

Alex keeps himself standing as the door bangs open and Isobel comes in. He tries not to feel naked even though he’s fully dressed as she finally sees him. Surprise goes over her features before, in an arguably impressive display, Michael hauls himself over the edge of the steps and puts himself in between Alex and Isobel. Alex fights the knot of panic and grips Michael’s elbow, pulling him back. Isobel watches the exchange silently. Thoughtfully. Then she focuses in on Michael.

“You brought a war hero back to your sex dungeon on wheels?” She demands, “how do you even fit on that bed?”

Alex realizes the second part was directed at him.

“Uh—“

“He’s not that much taller!” Michael says defensively, “the bed fits. Can you please go? And not tell anyone?” Alex frowns, “she can keep a secret, trust me, no one knows she ties Noah up.”

“Michael!”

“Everyone in this family has a sex dungeon. It’s an advantage of having someone who gets handcuffs for free. Please go.”

“At least mine has actual window shades!” Isobel throws over her shoulder, “it was nice to see you Alex,” she adds.

It’s a weird sensation. Alex finds he’s not comfortable with any of this. Not at all. Michael looks equally uncomfortable. But when he goes to move his hand, Alex grabs it. Michael grips his fingers back, turning to face him fully. He squeezes his hands and then frowns, letting go and moving over to the bed, ducking down. Alex frowns at the sight of something pink and shimmery from deep under the bed but Michael drops the blankets back and When he comes up, there’s a tube. He comes back over.

“You don’t have to go,” he says, “but I don’t want you hurting,” he tells him.

Alex grips his shoulder as he maneuvers over to the chair, rolling his pants up and easing the sleeve down and carefully applying the stuff around his limb. Michael watches with that same curiosity and Alex focuses on the task when he speaks.

“You got in front of me,” he says.

“Yeah—“

“You can’t do that if my dad finds out,” he tells him, looking up, “I’m serious, Guerin, I don’t want you being—“ he can’t say the words, “are you sure she’s not going to tell?”

Michael gives him a long, hard look. Alex tries to think if Isobel was a gossip in high school but he can’t remember. Or maybe he’s just too drained by everything. Michael shakes his head and turns. Alex knows Michael’s defensive about his siblings, especially Isobel. But he knows that all it will take is a rumor for his dad to start in. Who knows what he’ll do this time now that Alex wears the uniform. He’s expecting Michael to wizen up or something. What he isn’t expecting is for him to go back under the bed and come over with a piece of shimmering blue and pink glass. Alex recognizes it instantly from a display in the UFO Emporium. A trick he could never figure out. A thousand questions pile in his head and catch behind his teeth as Michael looks at him, something serious in his face. More serious that Alex has seen in a long time.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m sure she’s not gonna tell.”

#michael guerin #alex manes #malex #malex fic #roswell new mexico #roswell nm fanfic #michael x alex #malex fanfic #prompts #isobel evans

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theherothechampiontheinquisitor · 5 years ago

Text

12.16.1991 - Chapter 1

Rated: G - Canon Typical Violence

Realtionships: Pepperony, Howard/Maria Stark, Iron Dad, Rhodey & Tony Friendship

Summary: On December 16th, 1991 Howard and Maria Stark were killed in a tragic car accident. Or at least that's what their son and the world is left to believe. 25 years later, Helmut Zemo lures Tony, Steve and Bucky into a Siberian Hydra base to reunite a family...and use The Winter Soldier to destroy it once and for all.

Howard and Maria were kidnapped by The Winter Soldier and forced to work for Hydra. Through a turn of events they are reunited with Tony, and Howard sets out to make good on the promise he made to himself when he was captured...to begin the long road of making amends with his son.

Some additional thoughts/warnings: This is Howard Stark friendly. I know a lot of people hate him and there's comics where the character is abusive to Tony and Maria but that's not this world. I am going singularly off of the Howard Stark presented to us in Agent Carter and the brief glimpses in the MCU. Do I think Howard was a good parent? No. He has definitely made a lot of mistakes, but I don't think he is an irredeemable monster either. The second half of the story will be him trying to fix things with Tony and working through why he behaved so distantly. If that is not your bag then I can't say you'll enjoy this. Please don't come at me with Howard hate.

Not everything will be exactly like the movies.

Also HUGE HUGE thank you to @takadasaiko, my faithful cheerleader, idea giver, all around fantastic motivator. I would have never gotten this far without your help and our mutual appreciation for layered characters. <3

READ IT ON AO3

***********

December 16th, 1991

“Asset?”

The voice brought him out of his daze, thoughts finally cleared and focused, pain falling away like a mask from someone else’s body. His cold eyes focused on the man before him.

“Ready to comply,” came the hoarse rasp that always accompanied his awakenings.

“Mission critical. Search and retrieve. First the serums and then the witnesses. I want them brought in alive.”

He nodded his head affirmatively. This would be an easy task.

“Mission marks?”

The scientist smiled slowly exposing crooked and slightly yellowed teeth. “Howard and Maria Stark.” He waited to see if the name would spark any recognition but the Winter Soldier’s face was expressionless as always. “There is a son… Anthony. We are not concerned about him. Do not engage.”

The assassin nodded in acknowledgement and stood, his restraints having finally been removed. His metal arm felt stiff and he rotated it around until he had full range of motion. He towered before the scientist but the man showed no visible fear aside from the quiet rise and fall of his throat as he gulped back a breath of air.

“Mission launch time?”

“Tonight. Prepare yourself.”

The soldier nodded. He had his orders and he knew what he must do. Soon Howard and Maria Stark would be nothing but a ghost of a memory to the world. He needed to prepare.

***

The short ride from the house and to SHIELD headquarters had mostly been silent and Howard knew enough that it meant he was in trouble. He stole glances across the car to his wife but she remained glued to the window, watching as small flakes of snow began to fall over the road.

He reached out to take her hand but she didn't let his touch linger. She pulled away and rested her hands back in her lap and out of his reach.

"Maria…" he sighed. This was not how their vacation was supposed to begin. Of course it also wasn't supposed to involve him transporting a possible trial replication of the super soldier serum either, but he had a job to do too. All he had to do was work now and he'd be free to shoot golf and spend time with his wife by the time their plane landed in the Bahamas.

"It would be helpful to know what I've done so that I can begin to make amends for it and skip the sulking altogether," he offered in the darkness. It was difficult to discern her features in the dark, the only light coming from the street lamps brief flashes as they drove the winding road.

Howard had been married long enough however to instantly recognize that particular glare and upturned lip she leveled him with.

It was about the boy. It always seemed to be these days. So, he waited, allowing her to gather her thoughts in the silence. Maria was never one to hold back long.

He wracked his mind in the meantime of all his interactions with Tony since he'd returned from Europe on Friday. They'd exchanged a couple barbs and sarcastic comments but this was positively tame compared to how they normally got on. Neither of them had even raised their voices once.

The next bend came across steeper and Howard adjusted his speed in the winter weather. He didn't need them to get into a car accident on top of the already heavy atmosphere he found himself faced with.

"Would it kill you to say something kind to him, just once? It's Christmas," Maria exclaimed as if that was the answer to repairing the chasm between father and son.

He resisted rolling his eyes knowing it would only make her more upset. Tony had always been a delicate subject between them. He was her baby, 21 years old and throwing toga parties behind their back or not. She always saw him as that wide eyed baby boy she brought screaming into this world.

Howard used to be envious of their effortless connection. They always understood each other without words and yet Howard for all his genius couldn't even break through the defenses to his son who was so much like himself. He told himself it wasn't from lack of trying but he would be kidding himself. The best he could do was a half drunken confession on an 8mm Tony would probably never see. Or even want to see at this rate.

He never was able to dwell on their relationship for too long. There was always something else he needed to do for Shield, some other invention that Obadiah was breathing down his neck about to create or a tip about the possible crash site of his long gone best friend, Steve Rogers. Tony fell away to the back burner more and more until Howard blinked and his son no longer wanted his attention.

"What did you want me to say Maria?" He asked tiredly, the subject of his failed parenting sapping his energy. "Thank you Tony, for not making international headlines for the second time this year, the PR team appreciates the break? He's not a child anymore Maria. He needs to be preparing to be a CEO, not a Playgirl cover model."

That had been a fun and unexpected month of damage control when that surprise magazine cover dropped to newsstands.

"How many times do I have to tell you that he's acting out for you? He's desperate for your attention Howard, and you're hardly one to be judging lifestyle choices. I seem to remember you not being much different around his age," she reminded him, eyes not leaving his face, daring him to refute her comments.

"Before I met you perhaps, " he conceded. "Before we lost Cap…" Howard shook his head once to clear it even as his hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. Even now Steve Rogers was a sore subject. A constant reminder of his first greatest failure in life.

Maria softened a little and reached for him, her hand offering his thigh a gentle squeeze. "An I love you goes a long way, you know? It won't fix everything but I refuse to believe that this can't be mended Howard. Talk to him. Really talk to him. He loves you so much and you won't let him show it. God forbid if something were to happen…would you really want that interaction this morning to be the last words you said to him? Think about it."

Howard said nothing, keeping his eyes trained on the road, windshield wipers turned up as the snow fell harder. He really needed to get them to the airfield before they ended up stranded on these lonely back roads. There were no chains on their tires and they'd surely be stuck if it continued sticking to the road.

He wanted to argue with Maria, tell her she was wrong, but she hadn't been wrong in their marriage yet. Tony was crying out for help, negative attention being better than no attention at all. He should know. He had done the same to his father, for all the good it had done. His father died before Howard could ever make something of himself.

Christ he needed a drink, but that would have to wait until they made it to their plane. He increased the pressure on the gas slightly, Maria's words filling his mind.

***

The Winter Soldier watched as the Stark's Lincoln passed by the dark bend of road where he lay lurking in patience. As soon as they were around the bend he turned his motorcycle on with a rumble, light shining across the snowy road.

The cold had never bothered him and he found it easy to increase his speed to match the vehicle in the distance. He trekked safely behind them at first, watching and waiting for the narrow stretch of road he'd make his move on.

***

The car had been silent since Maria's last request. She had resumed looking out the window dutifully until her eyes slowly grew heavier and closed altogether.

Howard loved watching her as she slept. For a moment all the cares and worries were gone from her face, wrinkles turning to smooth skin. She looked younger. Happier. A disconcerting thought that her happiest moments lie in the hours she was not awake, and Howard knew he had to try harder. If only for her.

He didn't think much of the vehicle that came up behind them, seemingly out of nowhere. These roads were quiet but well used. He adjusted the rear-view mirror as the vehicle's headlight burned bright into the front end, making it difficult to see.

Asshole.

The vehicle continued trailing them, but soon picked up the pace, alternating between riding on their bumper and backing off. Howard didn't like this at all. He had one hand on the car phone in the center console when the vehicle made its move.

It was a motorcycle and it swung around to the passenger side with skill and ease, the slippery roads seemingly having no effect on its capabilities.

Howard pulled the phone off the hook immediately and held down on the number 1 speed dial to Peggy Carter.

The man on the motorcycle used that time to attack and brought a glint of metal crashing against the back passenger window.

The hit was powerful. Howard dropped the receiver to the floor, both hands flying to the wheel trying to steady the already swerving vehicle, but it was no use, the brakes had locked up and were unable to gain traction on the snow covered roads. Howard could only hope to lessen the speed of their impact.

The last thing that went through Howard Stark's mind, as the metal impacted upon the tree trunk, was not the terrified cry of his name from Maria or the loud voice calling his name from the receiver of the dropped phone.

It was an image of his son the last time he saw him, Christmas hat jauntily covering his face, wearing that old Mister Softees ice cream shirt that Howard had always hated but Tony had always loved.

And he thought, maybe an I love you every now and then wouldn't have been so hard.

Instead, he knew, his son would always wonder if his father had ever cared about him at all.

***

The Winter Soldier watched satisfactorily as the vehicle swerved off to the side of the road and into a tree. A severe impact but not fatal. He passed by them and then looped back around, pulling off the road a safe distance away.

He detected movement from the front seat as he approached the vehicle, but it was slow and dazed. They were no threat to him as he crashed his metal arm against the trunk and opened it. He pushed aside golf clubs and suitcases of clothing until he found what he was looking for.

The slightest indentation of fabric revealed the false trunk bottom and directly beneath was a silver suitcase.

He heard a thump from the driver side door and shuffling through the snow but it didn't matter. The suitcase was opened and the serum contents confirmed. The soldier removed the case and gently replaced the false bottom, smoothing the panel out and covering it back up.

"Maria...help my wife," the dazed voice rang out, not realizing he called out to his enemy.

The soldier looked the white haired man over finally approaching and grasping the man's head in his palm, forcing him to look up. He was bleeding from a head wound and from some cuts where glass had hit his face but he would be fine. His mission was a success.

***

"Please help her…" Howard heaved out to the stranger again, desperately trying to catch his breath in the cold air.

When his eyes were finally able to focus his confusion only grew.

"Sergeant Barnes?" Impossible. He had been dead for over thirty years now.

The Winter Soldier froze for the slightest moment, a spark of recognition lighting in the back of his mind as Bucky screamed to break free. Unnerved he shook it off, quashing the memory.

"Marks ready for transport. The serums are accounted for," he spoke into a small communication device hidden in his sleeve.

Howard shook his head again trying to swim through his confusion to grasp hold of the situation.

"The serums?" He looked and saw the silver suitcase in the man's mechanical hand. This was bad. He had to get those back. Get Maria, get the serums and get the hell out of here and to safety.

"Howard?" He heard his wife’s voice croak miserably from the car.

"Stay," the soldier said releasing his head with a shove, sending his body down into the snow and began making his way around to the passenger side of the car.

"No. Leave her alone," he called weakly. His ribs screamed in protest as he tried to right his body but he had to protect his wife. And he needed to get the phone. He needed to call Peggy. She would help them. She always did. He turned and began to pull his battered body forward towards the open driver's side door.

Maria Stark sat in the passenger seat and looked up at the winter soldier in terror. She also had bleeding from her head but she seemed more in shock than anything. She screamed as he reached in and pulled her from the car, Howard’s name on her lips as she struggled vainly.

The soldier came around the car and threw the woman to the ground quickly when he realized Howard had moved from his position and was reaching for something inside. He grabbed him by the back of his jacket and tossed him backwards again before inspecting the inside of the vehicle.

There on the floor a phone receiver dangled precariously. He grasped it with his metal arm and held it to his ear, listening for anyone on the other end. There was nothing but silence. He lingered a moment longer before placing it back on the hook in the center console.

A dark van came to a halting stop in the road, several men in dark clothes jumping out and removing what looked to be two large body bags. The ones not busy with the bags rushed across the road and the winter soldier supervised as they grabbed the injured Stark's and hauled them to their feet, leading them towards the vehicle.

Howard Stark struggled against the Hydra agents as they lead him, and the winter soldier delivered a swift blow to his side. The man groaned and was involuntarily compliant after that.

The pair were loaded into the back of the vehicle, roughly, the soldier monitoring the scene.

"You won't get away with this," Howard mustered through measured breaths, eyes scanning over the familiar man.

"We'll see," came the quiet response before black hoods were shoved over the couple's heads and the door was slammed shut in finality.

***

Peggy Carter had been getting ready for bed when her phone began ringing. Only a few people would call her so late at night and only one of them was on a mission of sorts.

"Howard?"

No sooner had she spoke before she heard the sound of what could only be Maria in the background calling out for Howard before there was a loud crashing noise.

Peggy nearly dropped the phone the crash was so deafening.

Instantly she jumped into action, thankful now for the new cordless phone Howard had introduced her to. She moved to her 2nd phone line and dialed into Shield. She called for a trace to be placed on the first line, hazard of the job, to narrow down the pair's location and a team to be on standby as soon as the trace came through.

Peggy tried calling out to Howard a couple times but it was clear he couldn't hear anything she was saying. She heard some more indistinct chatter in the background and so remained still, listening for anything that could give away the location or what was happening.

She held her breath when a deep breath came through the receiver, Peggy sat there like that, not daring to make a single noise. Then there was a click and a dial tone as the phone was disconnected.

Peggy let out a deep breath, anxiety welling within her at whatever had just transpired. She could only hope that they had enough time for the trace.

#Mel's Fics #Tony Stark #Howard Stark #avengers fanfic #mcu fanfiction #not civil war compliant #father son relationship mending #tony stark feels #tony stark needs a hug #tony and howard stark both have issues

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nikxation · 5 years ago

Text

This Is the End of Us I Swear

Summary: It’s been a month since the science fair accident, and for both Stan and Ford, moving on has proved harder than either of them would have thought. Decisions are made, words are said, and in the end, both of them just do what they think will make everything right again.

Based on Glendale by Clans and this art by @julientel.

Tags: 10k, Canon Compliant, Hurt No Comfort, Based on a song, based on fanart, Pre-college, post-science fair, Stangst, might write a second fix-it chapter one day, seriously this is just pain, (more warnings listed in notes before fic on AO3)

Link to AO3

~ ~ ~

The sun is just setting behind the horizon, the sky’s final rays of colored light fading into the black. Small pinpricks of light peak between the clouds, the last of the neon lights on the boardwalk finally flickering out. The streetlights themselves are only a few minutes from waking up and chasing the growing darkness back into the alleyways. The occasional car chugs down the street, the asphalt crunching under its tires. It’s quiet, even in the Pines residence where Ford, having spent the majority of his day packing, just barely manages to shove his favorite advanced calculus book into the last moving box and tape it shut.

Ten boxes are all he was allowed. Sure, he did the math, and he knew they could fit fifteen in the car if they were very careful about how everything was stacked and how full the boxes themselves were. Eighteen if Ma just stayed home instead of insisting on coming to see him off to his new home for, God forbid, the next four years. Eighteen boxes would be plenty space to fit everything he would need plus maybe some non-essentials like changes of clothing. Hell, he could fit a significant number of textbooks in fifteen boxes if he was very careful about maximizing every micrometer of space.

Pa limited him to ten, no arguments. Ma insisted on packing six of them herself, leaving him with only four boxes for his essentials.

A tragedy, to be sure.

The entire day was spent weighing the pros and cons of each combination of textbooks until he reached what he knew was the best option given his limiting circumstance.

It’s still heartbreaking looking at all the texts still lining his shelves and knowing they probably won’t last for long in Pa’s house, probably to be sold or trashed within the week.

He hoists the last box up, grunting at the weight because of course textbooks are heavy, but he never really considers how much fifty pounds is until he’s staggering across the room awkwardly with it in his arms. Fifty pounds isn’t a lot, is it? It always seemed effortless when Stan would bench twice that—

The box thwumps on the carpeted floor at the bedroom door, stacked with the other nine, all ready to be packed into the car come tomorrow morning.

It was strange how vacant the room had felt after the first box had been packed. Not so long ago, every square inch was covered with knick-knacks and pictures and life. But the more he took and packed, the more barren it felt. With every random item he uncovered from days long gone by, the more it felt like setting aside some small part of him to either be forgotten again or left behind. A subtle nostalgia, a longing tinged with an inseparable bitterness he only wishes he could forget or move past.

And now that the packing is finally done… Well…

There’s something to be said for a half empty room.

Well, half of a half, if the empty bottom bunk is anything to go by.

A three-quarters empty room, so to speak.

He stares at the bare mattress on the bottom bunk for a moment, stains and tears on full display since its sheets were ripped away and stored in some remote closet of the house just under a month ago. It’s almost as jarring as the empty room, has been since the day Ma came in empty-handed and left with a bundle of cloth and a wobble to her voice. He usually tries to avoid looking at it for long. It makes something uncomfortable twist in his gut, something that he tells himself is betrayal because he’s afraid if he thinks about it for too long, he’ll realize it’s something else, something he doesn’t think he can handle.

He gives the box of textbooks a soft kick to line it up with the others before turning back and climbing up onto his bunk.

He really ought to stop thinking about the room as only half his.

There are a few graphs and diagrams pinned up on the wall next to his bunk that he thinks he could fit inside his bookbag to take along with him, so he starts the methodical task of unpinning it all. The wall is thoroughly covered in layers, some pins holding up multiple pages, some tables hiding in the back that he’d forgotten about. It’s a stroll through memory lane in the same way that the rest of this day has been.

He pulls out a pin holding up a resistor band diagram, but something behind it slips out behind the bedrail and slides straight to the floor. He huffs, considering leaving it but then immediately deciding that’s a bad idea, since he’s not entirely sure what it is and it might be something important. So he clambers back down from his bunk, fully prepared the shimmy himself under the bed to find whatever it is that fell.

It didn’t go straight to the floor like he thought it did. Instead, it landed on Sta—the bottom bunk. Facedown, probably the size of a four-by-six photograph, a bit worn around the corners.

It’s probably not as important as he initially thought.

The moment he flips the paper is a rude awakening, digging up deeply entrenched memories of hot days on the beach and splinter-covered hands and sun-burnt shoulders and tales of treasure and adventure. It’s a small spark of warmth in his chest, a sun beating down an a pair of boys climbing around the shambles of an old boat, the hot sand between their toes, the reflection of the sun off the crashing waves blinding them, the raucous screams of the seagulls drowned out by their laughter.

He forgot he still had this picture.

It’s strange, the exact memories it brings back. Like him bartering with an old sailor for a rusty anchor while Stan snuck around and grabbed a throw ring. Or Stan crawling inside the hollow boat and coming out with at least three different kinds of bugs caught in his hair. Or Ma finding out about their newest project and insisting on taking a picture of them with it. Stan taking his hand and hoisting him up onto the deck before clambering up to the highest point on the boat and posing like it’s where he belonged. A breeze grabbing the makeshift sail not even seconds after the picture was taken, shaking the boat enough for Stan to lose his balance and fall back into the sand, sputtering with laughter while a worried Ford hopped off the boat and helped him back up.

He smiles at the softness of it all, at the comfort and freedom of happier times. Simpler times. Times before colleges and science fair projects and grandiose expectations and disappointments. Back when their biggest concerns were having enough sunscreen and being home in time for dinner. Before it all fell apart.

He glances from the dilapidated boat in the picture out to the rebuilt one just barely visible in the darkness outside the window, docked down at the pier. It’s only a day’s worth of work away from being ready to sail. Just need to seal off a few small leaks in the hull and patch the tear in the sail. Leaps and bounds further along than the remains of the boat in the picture. A decade of afterschool work culminating in an empty, almost-finished boat bobbing on the waves.

He hasn’t set foot on the pier since the incident.

It’s all so different now.

He hates that he almost misses him.

He tells himself it’s just the adjustment period. Eighteen years of falling asleep to someone else’s snoring only to be replaced with sudden, deafening silence. Eighteen years of four people sitting at the dinner table now becoming three, the other side of the table empty and left unset. Eighteen years of someone at your side leaving a gaping hole in their place when they’re gone.

It has to be an adjustment period.

Because how could he miss the person that betrayed him?

That stabbed him in the back and ruined his future, all in the name of treasure-hunting?

He couldn’t.

He can’t.

Pa keeps telling him that he’s going places, that he’s got a bright future ahead of him, that his brother was just dragging him down. He tells him that he wishes he’d kicked him out sooner, then all of this would have been avoided.

Couldn’t just screw up his own life. Had to go and screw up yours too.

Pa tells him to forget and move on. To go back to his room and keep studying.

And he tries. He really does, because that has to be the right thing to do. That has to be the best way forward.

He should hate him.

And part of him does.

Part of him recoils at the mention of his name, some seed of anger burning red-hot when the fond memories give way to thoughts of broken science fairs projects and shattered trust. It coils and churns in his stomach, fueled by the acceptance letter to Backupsmore and his father’s disappointed scowl when that’s the only acceptance letter that arrives and the random items still hiding around the room that don’t belong to him and the name mix-up at graduation and the folder of maps and guides still on the bookshelf of that damn boat…

Part of him is angry. Rightfully so.

And yet…

The photo creases slightly in his hand.

His insides burn, and he tells himself it’s anger because the other thing, the thing that he pretends doesn’t exist, remembers how desperate and alone Stan looked that night out on the sidewalk with a bag on his shoulder and his hand raised up towards the window. It remembers and it remembers and it remembers. And it burns.

It has to be anger, because at least that makes sense, and at least that doesn’t keep him up at night staring at the ceiling and hating how quiet the room is.

It’s what he tells himself.

But even then, he still hates that hot coal of resentment in his chest, a heavy weight still dragging him further and further down. He hates feeling this way. He hates how, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to forget and move on. Hates it with every fiber of his being.

It’s in the past so why won’t it just stay there?

The pier lights finally kick on, bathing the dock and the Stan O War in flickering fluorescent white. It’s a shadow looming on the waves, still docked peacefully as if nothing ever happened, as if the whole world wasn’t just flipped on its axis. As if everything was still alright.

Simpler times.

Distantly, he wonders if that boat was ever really his dream, or if he was just happy to be living it with Stan. He knows there was one point when he did want it, can remember it the same way he remembers the sand between his fingers and the taste of the sea air. But then they told him he was smart and that he had a future and that he could go to college and that he could change the world.

Somewhere along the line, his priorities changed. And Stan refused to see it, to accept it.

It’s been almost a month, and that boat is still just sitting there, a reminder of everything that went wrong, of how empty everything suddenly feels, of the remnants of a future left for him, and he hates it, hates Stan. He has to, right?

He has to.

The weight sinks lower in his chest and burns and burns and burns.

He’s angry. He has to be.

And it’s Stan’s fault.

Him and that stupid b—

Something… clicks in his head. Like a moment of clarity, suddenly telling him exactly what he needs to do, that it’ll make everything better. Make everything even.

He doesn’t think about it too hard.

He just shoves the picture in his pocket and leaves the room, making a quick stop by the kitchen on his way out the front door.

~ ~ ~

The treasure-hunting business has been… lackluster, to say the least. Apparently, gold is some kind of “rare metal”, which really throws a wrench into his whole get-rich-quick scheme.

Stan’s been driving since sunset, the window rolled down so he can taste that familiar salty ocean breeze as he makes his way down the coast, the wind pulling at his hair and roaring in his ear as he sails down the highway. The north end of the state had been a complete bust. With the help of his totally-legally-acquired, not-at-all-stolen metal detector, he’d only managed to scrounge up a couple dollars’ worth of coins, a few cheap wedding rings that he pawned, and a surprising number of fake teeth. All in all, he barely had enough money to feed himself and keep gas in the Stanleymobile, and even that was pushing it at times. So now he’s heading south to try out the bottom half of the state.

Not that he’s hesitant to leave New Jersey altogether or anything.

As if staying in the state will make his circumstances seem a little less real, a little less permanent.

The sign welcoming him to Glass Shard Beach whizzes by, momentarily caught in his headlights before disappearing into the encroaching darkness behind him.

It’s been a month, and he still has a hard time believing everything that happened actually… happened. There’s this part of it that still feels unreal, like it happened years ago or just to someone else altogether. It feels like he’s driving home instead of through what used to be his home. Like he should be pulling up to the pawn shop and heading upstairs, giving the cat a pet while Ma shoots him a devilish smirk as she works the person on the phoneline, Pa silently reading the newspaper in his chair, the floorboards creaking in a familiar pattern as he heads up to their bedroom, Ford reading some textbook on his bunk, laughing at whatever ridiculous story Stan has to share from boxing practice before they head down to the beach to work away the last of the sunlight fixing up the Stan O War.

When he finds himself on an all-too-familiar road by the boardwalk, it’s almost second nature to slow down as the Pines Pawn sign rolls into view. He knows he should just drive past without a second glance, because screw them all. But at the same time, he’s almost… curious? And maybe that home-sick part of him is saying just one peek wouldn’t hurt anything, and then he’d be on his way again, off to make his fortune, make them rue the day or whatever.

He ignores the hunger pains in his gut as he slows the car to a crawl on his way past, peering out the passenger window cautiously, ready to nail the gas and book it out of there if he’s spotted.

Ma is sitting in the upstairs window like always, phone up to her ear while she twirls the cord and the sucker on the other end of the line around her little finger. Pa is downstairs cashing out the pawn shop, counting down the money in the drawer for probably the third time of the night. Everything looks… normal. Peaceful. Not a thing out of place or out of the ordinary.

His chest aches when he realizes almost nothing seems to have changed since he left.

He isn’t entirely sure he expected anything different, but seeing it in-person still hurts more than it has any right to.

Their His The bedroom light is on, but the room is empty. From this angle he can barely make out the mostly bare walls and bunks, leaving him wondering if Ford already left for college.

Or wherever he ends up going, since Stan really screwed that one up for him, didn’t he?

There’s a chance he’s still in town.

His stomach churns at the thought of seeing his twin again. As hurt as he is by everything, as much as the memory of Ford closing those curtains stings, he still misses him. He misses that feeling of always having someone at his side, through thick and thin. He misses feeling wanted.

Though, if Pa’s words are anything to go by, then maybe he was wrong about that feeling from the start.

He takes it all in for one last second, telling himself that this is it, he’s not coming back, this is the last time. He keeps telling himself that for another second. And then another. And another.

It’s not until Pa pauses from counting the money that he finally startles back into gear and pulls off before the old man looks out the window, barreling down the street way over the speed limit because, suddenly, it’s the very last place he wants to be.

How bad would it look if Pa saw him sitting out here?

He’d look stupid. He’d look like even more of a failure, as if he was too scared to leave, as if he just came crawling back like a dog with its tail between its legs in defeat. He’d be admitting they’re right about him. He’d be giving up.

Would they even let him come back?

He shakes the thought off.

It’s been a month, and he’s not done yet. He’s on his way to success yet, he can feel it. Pretty soon, he’ll be rolling in all the cash Pa could ever hope for, and then he can rub it in their faces, make them regret ever kicking him out and abandoning him.

He’ll show them.

His stomach growls again, dragging him back to reality for the moment. He only has a dollar and some spare change in his wallet, which won’t buy him very much food-wise. And the owners of the local convenience store have known him for as long as he can remember and know to watch out for his “tendencies”.

He’s going to need supplies.

It’s almost completely dark now, the moon barely a sliver in the sky, the saltwater spray from the ocean coming off the boardwalk as he coasts alongside it. Out on the water, a barge stands barely lit, far out on the waves, a pinprick of light on an otherwise dark and desolate sea.

It gives him an idea.

~ ~ ~

Ford still remembers the day they first pulled the Stan O War out of that cave, the memory a spotlight in the fog of distant and long-forgotten days.

They’d spent a good hour trying to scrounge up enough rope to haul it out, one of them always stationed right outside the cave to make sure no one went in and claimed their find. And when they finally got the rope, it took them another hour to figure out the best way to tie it up and pull, breaking off a few more chunks of the decrepit boat than either of them would care to admit. But once they got it moving, it was, well, smooth sailing from there. There was a bucket of paint, he doesn’t remember where they got it, but he remembers the debate they had before finally settling on the name and painting it on the side. He remembers the terrible sun burns they both had that night, and how Ma had to cover them in almost half a bottle of aloe. It didn’t even come close to stopping them from going out again the next night. And the night after that.

The first year or so, it had been their own personal playground. They’d play pirates or adventurers, taking turns coming up with monsters to fight or treasures to find (or, in Stan’s case, hot mermaids to win over). The little half-boat had been their home away from home, a safe haven for them and only them.

Then they actually started rebuilding it.

Suddenly, what had been a call to adventure was now becoming a reality. The dream to go out and explore the unexplored and find the unfindable was finally looking like it was coming true. All with his twin at his side.

Building that boat gave him some of his favorite memories.

And then things changed.

Dreams changed.

And now he’s sitting on the deck alone, the soft splashing of waves and the gentle knocking of the hull against the dock the only sounds outside his own thoughts swirling in his head.

He was resolute when he first left the house, sure of what he had to do. But the walk here gave the doubt time to settle in, made the weight in his pocket seem impossibly heavier.

It doesn’t make any sense.

It should be easy, but…

He remembers when they sanded the deck, how they had to choose between the electric sander or the water-proofing epoxy because Stan’s part-time job at the gym couldn’t cover both. The subsequent weeks were spent sanding the entire boat by hand with the little hand radio buzzing in the background. He gently runs his hand across the glossy wood, remembering the splinters and cuts they both got every day. They’d always been so sure it would be worth it.

Was it?

Ford had considered building something to make the process easier, their own homemade electric sanders. But Stan had talked him out of it. Said it would come out so much nicer if they did it themselves, that it can’t take that much longer to do it by hand, right?

Stan always liked doing things the hard way.

Well, that’s not true. He found shortcuts wherever he could, cut every corner possible to get to where he needed to go. That’s why he always managed to almost make it through school with straight Cs.

But things that he cared about, things that meant something to him, he always took his time on, took the extra minute to be careful with.

Too bad he didn’t care too much about your future, then.

His nails scrape against the deck, his shoulders drawing together around him.

He still can’t for the life of him figure out why Stan did it, what drove him to sabotage his entire future. It couldn’t have been an accident. Stan would have warned him. He would have come clean before the science fair. It had to be on purpose.

Right?

It had to be on purpose.

Because Stan has to care about his treasure-hunting and his own dreams more than he cares about his brother’s.

Because if he’s wrong, then…

Then Stan…

That stone in his chest sinks a little deeper, burns a little hotter.

He shoves himself to his feet, steadying himself against the railing as the boat sways slightly underfoot.

He has to be right.

Because he’s not sure if he can live with being wrong.

And no matter how much his chest hurts, he guesses the result was the same no matter if he meant it or not. Because either way, he’s going to some worthless school where he’s going to have to work ten times harder just to get anywhere in the world.

And Stan…

Stan was going to leave home anyways. Stan had no plans on staying anywhere near Glass Shard Beach and is probably already hundreds of miles away doing absolutely fine. This was just a hiccup for him. Ruining Ford’s life was nothing more than a speedbump. He got kicked out, but he was probably a month away from leaving anyways.

Ford had his dream stolen from him.

And Stan—

Carefully, he climbs up onto the railing of the boat and steps back onto the dock, digging his hand down into his pocket.

This boat is Stan’s dream. Not his.

He pulls out the matchbook he grabbed from the kitchen, fingers fumbling at he pulls out a single match.

An eye for an eye, right?

He strikes it, the matchstick catching with a hot spark. The single flame is warm in his fingers, dancing side to side in the light ocean breeze, the cheap wood already burning down, blackening and curling in on itself in the heat.

He ruined you.

He deserves this.

Before he can second-guess himself again, he tosses the match onto the deck.

~ ~ ~

Stan’s thinking about those food rations they stored in the hull of the boat, trying to map out how many days he can make them last if he’s careful.

He smells the smoke moments before he pulls into the parking lot at the top of the boardwalk.

Barely gets the car turned off before he sees the flames and starts running.

The boat is already halfway gone, the fire spreading across the entire deck and making its way up the mast, panic settling into his bones as he books it towards the pier.

There’s a shadow of a person standing in front of it, and all he can manage is to scream something, he can’t even remember what, and the person startles and then runs. By the time Stan makes it down to the pier, the person is already halfway down the beach, and there’s no chance at catching them, so he turns his attention to the boat.

I can save it.

I can fix this.

There are sirens in the distance. He can barely hear them over the crackle and roar of the flames. There’s a bucket on the deck of the only other boat docked, so he grabs it. Gets to work.

There’s so much of that span of time that’s a blur, a sequence of repeated motions all a backdrop to his frantic thoughts.

Lay on the dock to reach the water.

I can do this. I can do this.

Scoop as much as you can into the bucket.

How could this happen? Did that person standing here have anything to do with it?

Stand up.

What if I can’t save it?

Pour it on the flames.

He’ll never forgive me.

Repeat.

Never.

Everything’s a rush. The fire spreads across the entire deck, no matter his efforts. No matter how much water he heaves onto it, it just keeps growing, spreading, the smoke burning his lungs the way cigarettes never could, stinging his eyes, heat radiating through the air around him.

He keeps working.

I have to save it.

I need to save it.

If I save it, maybe he’ll forgive me.

The wood creaks and snaps over the sound of the flames, charred and crumbling. But he keeps working.

If I can’t, he’ll never forgive me.

Useless. Worthless. Mistake.

It’ll be the end of us.

Bucketful after bucketful, flames creeping to the top of the mast, the sails turning to ash, everything crumbling and burning right before his eyes and there’s nothing he can do to stop it but keep working.

He’s getting another scoop of water, and the bucket slips from his fingers, getting pulled down beneath the surface faster than he can react. It disappears into the black waters, pulling a curse from him.

I can still do this.

He’ll start scooping with his hands, if that’s what it takes.

But then someone grabs him, and it’s the first time he realizes how close the sirens are. They pull him away from the flames. Instinct kicks in. He’s kicking and screaming to let him go, he needs to do this, he can’t let it burn down, he can’t let it disappear, it’s all he has left, let him go—

A group of people run by in the flickering darkness as the other person keeps dragging him back, and something in his brain finally connects the sirens to the people around him, some of the panic settling into relief when he sees the long water hose the ones running down the pier are carrying.

Because there’s this inkling of hope that it’s not all lost. That it’ll be salvageable.

And then they’re blasting water at it, and his blood runs cold.

It’s almost an instant reaction, the twist in his gut at the sound of cracking wood as the mast bends to the side under the force of the water, then snaps completely and splashes into the waves.

And then he’s screaming at them, begging them to stop because can’t they see they’re making it worse? They’re destroying it. They need to stop. He needs to make them stop.

He’s flailing against the arms holding him back, throwing blind punches even though nothing’s connecting, and his insides feel more and more hollow the more steam they fill the air with and the more the boat creaks and groans.

Something finally connects, and the arms let him go, and then he’s running again, every pound of his feet on the dock lost in the hiss of the water battling the flames, battering the boat.

He hasn’t made it far when a resounding crack splinters through the air, freezing his feet in place.

Through the swirling mist, he sees the entire boat list forward, quickly taking on water. His feet are rooted in place as, within a span of seconds, the entire front half of the boat is submerged. And the back snaps in half. Falls into the waves behind it.

He doesn’t feel his knees hit the wood dock.

What’s left of the Stan O War sinks beneath the waves, a few broken boards the only things marring the surface of the otherwise now undisturbed sea.

And just like that, it’s gone.

It’s just… it’s just gone.

And he doesn’t even have the barest hope that there’s any way to bring it back.

Hands grab him again and pull him back up, but it’s all numb, the voices around him hollow and muffled, a million miles gone. He can’t look away, gaze locked on splintered wood and ash, eyes burning from the smoke and the saltwater that might be seawater, might not.

It doesn’t feel real.

It can’t be real.

Because if it is…

His throat catches, seawater rolling off his cheeks in rivulets, leaving trails in the ash and soot covering his face.

Because if it is, then I really did ruin his life, and there’s nothing I can do to fix it.

Something inside him breaks at that, crumbles, the hands on his shoulders finally turning him away from the wreckage.

His insides collapse into themselves, and it’s all he can do to stop the rest of himself from following suit, to keep himself walking away from the very last semblance of hope he had to fix everything.

This is the end of us.

~ ~ ~

Ford’s running as fast as he can, his lungs heaving with every step, sand and glass shards kicking out behind him, the roar of the flames dying out the further and further he gets. It isn’t until they fade into the sounds of the waves lapping against the shore that his legs finally give out and send him to his hands and knees under the weight of what he just did.

He’d stood there watching as the fire caught, watching as the epoxy coat on the deck bubbled and charred until the wood underneath finally started to burn. He watched, waiting for that feeling of relief as the fire spread, the air getting warmer and warmer, the smoke slowly getting thicker and thicker. He thought he’d feel better about it, thought it’d cut the final string tying him and his brother together and finally let him be free of him. But instead, the fire inside him just fizzled out as the flames crept higher and higher. And he kept waiting and waiting, hoping for something new and better and good to take its place inside him, to feel the vindication he’d sorely been hoping for when he finally tossed the match on-board.

Nothing came.

There was only a distant voice, yelling at him to put the goddamn fire out what are you doing? And that had sent him running, because common sense reminded him that arson is a crime, and something about the voice clawed at his insides so deeply that he was afraid to realize why. So, he ran. And he ran and ran and ran, hoping in vain that at some point the weight pushing him further and further into the ground would lift, would let him breathe. That maybe some of the fire would come back, or something, anything but this emptiness, this detachment.

The first law of thermodynamics states that energy is neither created nor destroyed, only transferred.

He wonders if that’s why that fire inside him died the higher the flames got on the boat, leaving nothing but ashes behind. Or, he wonders, if this is one thing that science can’t solve.

He doesn’t have an answer for any of it.

He’s on his hands and knees, the fire flickering in the distance, all his anger spent and gone and leaving him numb and cold and feeling something heavier than gravity pulling him towards the center of the earth.

His arms tremble under it, tears stinging his eyes.

How did Stan do it?

There are sirens in the distance, his chest shuddering with every breath of briny air.

He wants to feel satisfied with what he did, but instead it just feels like he scraped out his insides, tearing himself to ribbons and swearing he was doing it to someone else, like he’s ripping open the same poorly healed scars over and over again, hoping he’ll finally heal whole for once. Telling himself that it didn’t matter that it was also years of his own life spent working on that boat, that it still meant something to him. What mattered was that it meant something to Stan. He shouldn’t feel a damn thing.

But Stan’s not here to feel anything; it’s just him.

Just him.

Alone.

How was Stan able to do it so easily?

Every moment, the guilt tears at him more and more, and he swears it can’t get any worse, it just can’t. But then he remembers exactly why he lit that match, and it makes something vile turn over in his stomach because how could he do that to his own brother? How could he ever do that to someone he’s supposed to care about? And then every moment feels like a new low, some fundamental boundary shredded by a blinding moment of anger. An utter betrayal that cuts him to the core when he realizes its consequence, some combination of shame and remorse gripping his throat and squeezing when he remembers how he wanted Stan to feel.

The light behind him dies off, the last flames flickering in the distance, dancing off the glass shards scattered in the sand around him before disappearing into the darkness.

How was Stan able to completely ruin him and not feel a damn thing?

None of it makes sense. A voice that sounds eerily like Pa tells him it’s because Stan is useless, a con, some punk that only cares about himself and doesn’t give a shit about any of them. But that doesn’t settle right in him, doesn’t feel like the boy that yelled at the bullies that threw rocks at them and blew off a date to drive him to a science convention out of town and came into their room after an argument with their Pa with a swollen eye and pretended it was nothing. It doesn’t sound right, but neither does that same person ruining his one chance at a future and then playing it off as no big deal.

It doesn’t make sense.

It doesn’t make sense that Stan would do this to him. It doesn’t make sense that burning the boat down hurts so badly. That he suddenly feels more alone than he ever has, crouched on that beach and surrounded by a black sea and an empty boardwalk and knowing that has nothing to do with the hollow feeling inside his chest, aching like it’s lost some vital piece of itself.

It doesn’t feel fair.

This was supposed to help.

Instead, all he’s left with are tarnished memories and an amalgamation of confusing emotions that all just boils down to pain, pure and simple.

He shouldn’t have done it.

Hell, he regrets coming out here at all.

It feels like hours before the wailing sirens finally go quiet, and he shakily pushes himself to his feet, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he begins the long walk home, the pack of matches left behind lying in the sand.

~ ~ ~

There are little things that Stan never really thought to miss after he left. Little, every-day moments that aren’t necessarily significant, but still fall somewhere in the realm of normalcy and routine and fill some little gap in his life. Gaps that are small enough to not notice once they’re empty.

The flipping of book pages late at night. The small bit of light filtering in the window from the streetlights outside. The way the boxing mat moves and yields underfoot. The shift of his gloves when he throws a punch because they’ve always been slightly too big. The feel of sanded wood dust between his fingers. Hauling the toolbox out to the Stan O War every day to work. The smell of the shop the day after Pa gets the floors waxed. The tinkle of the bell on the door when someone walks in.

That last one ushers in the thought of the rest.

Hearing that bell when he cautiously walks into the pawn shop the next morning, it makes him wonder about all the other little things he’s forgotten to remember, forgotten to miss.

“What part of ‘you’re not welcome here’ did you not understand?”

Or just simply forgotten on purpose.

“Nice to see you too, Pops,” he says, aimlessly glancing around the shop, feigning interest in the various wares (most of which were here when he got kicked out left). Mostly, it’s just an attempt to avoid looking at the man standing behind the counter.

“If you think you can just come crawling back here after—”

“I’m not,” Stan says, his voice hard. “Just had to come and make sure Ford’s okay before I head back out of town.”

“Course he’s okay,” Filbrick says. Stan can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief that Ford wasn’t somehow tangled up in the fire. That he’s alright. That he maybe doesn’t know about it yet. “No thanks to you.” Stan bristles.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Do they know he was there? Do they know he couldn’t stop it?

“It means he barely managed to get a scholarship to some run-down nothing school thanks to what you—"

“I’m not talking about the science fair! I’m talking about—”

The backdoor of the shop, the one that leads up to the apartment, opens. The tell-tale creak rings another bell in the back of his head, some other forgotten detail of his life that he’s not entirely sure what to do with. He turns at the sound and immediately locks eyes with a distorted reflection of himself.

“What do you want?” Ford’s knuckles white where they grip a backpack slung over his shoulder, but he seems almost confused, his brow ever so slightly furrowed. The door clicks closed behind him, seeming impossibly loud in the now-silent room.

“Hey, um.” The look throws him off, considering he was expecting hate or anger or even an immediate dismissal. Then again, maybe confusion makes sense too. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Why wouldn’t I be okay now that you’re gone?

He doesn’t think that’s what he meant, but it doesn’t make the comment sting any less.

“There was a fire,” he says slowly, “down at the pier.”

It’s almost imperceptible, the way Ford’s eyes widen ever so slightly at that. Stan knows he’s the only one that would ever notice it, even if it’s not entirely the response he would expect.

He’s not sure what he would expect at this point.

“Pa, there are still a few boxes upstairs,” Ford says, watching Stan for another second before turning to the man still behind the counter. “They’re a bit too heavy for me. Would you mind bringing them down? I’ll watch the shop.”

Pa doesn’t have to have his glasses off for Stan to know the exact looks he’s giving them: a judgmental squint, probably aimed more at him than Ford, a quite calculation running through his head before he grunts out that he’ll be back in five minutes. He gives Ford a semi-awkward pat on the shoulder before heading upstairs, the door clicking shut behind him.

Ford faces back towards him the moment the door closes, his arms crossed in front of his chest, hands tucked in his elbows. His eyes are glancing around, refusing to meet his own.

“You, uh, going somewhere?” Stan asks, not entirely sure how to break the silence that settled back over them.

“Why are you here, Stan?” Ford’s still not looking at him, his voice tighter than it was just a minute ago, yet somehow impossibly exhausted, detached.

“I just… I was driving through and happened to go by the pier last night. The Stan O War was on fire.” He watches for a reaction, waiting to see if Ford knew, if he cared. But there’s nothing. No waver in his expression, not even some acknowledgement of what he said. Just his eyes still looking anywhere else in the room. “Just wanted to see if you were nearby, make sure you weren’t hurt or—”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you know what hap—”

“No.”

“And you weren’t anywhere near—”

“I’m fine.”

The silence settles again, the air tense and uncomfortable between them. There’s an enormous elephant in the room. More like a couple, if he’s being completely honest. Neither of them seem willing to address them. It only makes the atmosphere seem that much heavier.

“It’s been a while, huh?” Stan says, not able to stand the quiet any longer. “Over a month by now, right?”

“Twenty-seven days.” He states it plainly, like one of those facts from a textbook. Cold and detached and simple.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. That sounds about right.”

Ford’s eyes seem to have settled, his gaze locked on something behind him, just to the side of his head. Enough to see him without having to look at him.

He won’t even look—

��Basically an eternity for us, huh?” Stan says, an awkward laugh forcing its way out. “Don’t think we ever went more than an hour without seeing each other before and now—”

“Was there something else you wanted to say to me, or was that it?”

“I…” It takes him aback, the iciness in Ford’s tone, the way his arms pull closer to his chest just the slightest bit. “What?”

“You came here to check on me?” Ford asks, his voice so flat it barely registers as a question. “That’s it?”

“I mean, yeah I guess?” Ford’s still not looking at him, and it just sinks something deep into his chest, leaving him floundering to say the right thing. “I was worried, you know?” It doesn’t feel like enough. Must hate me for not saving it. “But I tried to save the boat and everything. By the time I got there, there wasn’t much I could do.” He sees it, Ford’s arms tensing as he clenches his fists, his teeth grinding down. He’s saying the wrong things and he knows it, so he switches gears. “Look, I mean, I get if you’re mad at me for not stopping it. But the hull still seemed partly intact. I can, like, stay in town a while and help you fix her if you want. Not that you probably don’t hate me now, but I’ll stay out of your way and—"

“Get out.”

That ache in his chest drops like a weight, and suddenly he’s drowning.

“W-what?”

“I have nothing left to say to you, Stanley.” His fists fall to his sides, shoulders squaring back, his eyes still locked behind him. “So get out, and don’t make me say it again.”

It’s a slap in the face, one that stings all the way down to his core. He knows this is going badly. Doesn’t take a genius to see that.

Isn’t this what you expected when you walked in that door?

But he can’t let it end. Not like this. Shouldn’t it matter that it was an accident and he did everything he could? Shouldn’t it matter that he didn’t mean to hurt him?

“I came here to try to fix things,” Stan says, but Ford just blinks at the wall behind him, swallows.

“I don’t want you to.”

There are a million questions buzzing through his head, “when”s and “why”s and “how”s colliding and fracturing all while he sinks further and further down. He tries to grip back onto that anger from the first night, the night they threw him out onto the concrete with next to nothing and he swore the world would never see him coming. He tries to grab onto that righteous fury again, but it just slips through his fingers, lost in the backache from sleeping in his car and the suffocating silence and the stomach pains from so many days with barely enough money for food. Instead he just finds himself longing for everything that was, for the smell of Ma’s cooking and Pa’s annoyed grunts when they came in late at night and the jingle of the pawn shop bell and most of all—

“Please Ford,” Stan says. “I miss us. I can’t let everything get thrown away just over some stupid mistake! Just let me try to fix this.”

“A ‘stupid mistake’?” Ford scoffs, lowering his head with a shake. “Your ‘stupid mistake’ ruined everything. You ruined my life, Stan. There’s nothing left to fix.”

“But it was all an accident!” he says. “I didn’t mean to bump the table, and the boat was on fire when I got there. And I know, I know there’s nothing I can do about your college, so at least let me try to fix the Stan O War for you, and then maybe—”

“Would you shut up about the stupid boat already!” It’s practically a shout, the first time he’s raised his voice like that at him, his fists visibly shaking and his eyes locked on his shoes. Stan takes a small step back.

“W-what did I do wrong?”

“What did you do wr— are you kidding me?” And for the first time, Ford meets his eyes. Stan expects to see seething anger there, bubbling fury that shakes his entire frame as it threatens to boil over. He expects flames. But instead, he’s met with a detached coldness, solid ice that pierces down to the bone. “All you ever cared about was that stupid boat and your stupid treasure hunting! Did you ever stop to think about what I wanted? No, you didn’t.”

“I thought we wanted the same thi—”

“I let you drag me into your dumb, idiotic dreams that are never going anywhere. But not anymore. I’m done, Stan. I’m not letting you—you— hang on my coattails anymore. I’ve got a future ahead of me and I’m through with letting you keep me from it. There’s nothing left to fix because there is no more ‘us’. Get it? So just leave already.”

Every word stings, cutting deeper and deeper until Ford finally seems to take a breath, and Stan’s left feeling like the entire weight of the ocean is crushing into his chest.

Is that really how he felt?

He thought the boat, all of it, was their dream. He thought it was the future they both wanted the moment it was possible. That’s what Ford had said up until the science fair. Was he wrong? Did he really make Ford this miserable? Did he really hate him from the beginning? Were they really—

“I didn’t—”

“And you know what?” Ford says, voice shaking, bordering on hysterical. “I’m glad you couldn’t put out the fire, because I was the one who started it in the first place!” Stan swears he feels his heart stop in his chest, something in the back of his throat seizing. “So at least this once you didn’t screw up something for me.”

“Y-you burned—?”

“And it was the best decision I ever made,” he says. “Dumb adventures, treasure hunting, that boat, you. I’ve moved on. It’s all behind me now. I have a future ahead of me. So just leave me alone and, for once in your goddamn life, get out of my way.”

It’s all your fault. All your fault.

He’ll never forgive you.

Never.

This is the end—

“Stanford, I’m sor—”

“Get out.”

“Sixer please—”

“I said get out!”

The shout dies as fast as it escapes Ford’s lips, but it leaves Stan’s ears ringing. He’s stuck in place, the world revolving around him and Ford glaring holes through his skull and everything feeling all too real and not quite real enough as that ache in his chest claws at his insides, tears him apart.

It’s too quiet.

It’s too quiet, but his head is buzzing, and there’s no way this is real, but it is. It’s more real than the day he got kicked out.

It’s too quiet, and his insides are screaming that this is wrong, this is his nightmares come to life, that it can’t of all fallen apart that easily, that it can’t be over, that this can’t be the end.

But it is.

And it hits him with a sudden, startling clarity.

All the derision and hate from his father, he never saw it in Ford. But maybe it’s always been there, and he was just fooling himself by thinking otherwise. Telling himself that if no one else wants him, then his twin, the brother he’s quite literally spent his entire life with, would have to care about him. That he must be willing to go to the ends of the Earth at his side, together against the world, forever and ever.

He never realized “forever” only lasted until the end of high school. That maybe he was more alone than he ever thought.

The shock subsides, but it leaves something bitter in the back of his throat, the rock lodged in his chest twisting like a knife, the very last shred of hope he had of fixing things between them withering and dying.

He takes a step back and grits his teeth through it.

Because none of this changes the fact that he’s still going to make his millions. That he’s still going to rub it in their faces. That he’s going to make them regret ever kicking him out and doubting him and thinking he’s nothing but a waste of space, a walking mistake.

He tells himself for the hundredth time that he doesn’t need them.

That he’ll be fine on his own.

Because if that’s how he really feels, then—

“Fine,” Stan says, straightening his back and swallowing down the pain scraping its way up his throat. “If that’s what you want, fine. I’ll never bother you again.” And he turns on his heel, the bell jiggling as he yanks the door open, sunlight and ocean air barreling in. “Have a nice life, Stanford.”

And he walks.

~ ~ ~

Stan’s not sure how he made it to the car, let alone how he already made it this far down the highway. It’s all a blur, thoughts and memories lost to the tears already streaming down his face. He wipes at them with his arm, but more and more come to replace them, dripping down his cheeks, his chin, onto his shirt. He feels hollow, like someone scooped out his guts and left him to rot, but the tears just keep coming and coming, the knot in his throat slowly getting tighter and tighter.

All it takes is a sign whizzing by outside.

Leaving Glass Shard Beach.

Thanks for visiting!

It’s like a dam breaking, the agony and the hurt and the betrayal and the anger all coming up in a rush that he tries so hard to choke back down, to bury like he’s always done, like he was always taught to do. But it’s like holding back a hurricane inside his chest, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the sobs that force their way through and catch in his throat, tears falling heavier than raindrops and threatening to drown him.

It’s really over.

It’s really the end.

He bites down on his lip to try to keep it in, but more just keeps bubbling up.

He knows he shouldn’t be crying like this. Not here, not now. Hell, not ever. He’s the strong one.

One of what?

It’s not supposed to hurt this much, to feel like such an utter rejection, to be impossibly worse than the first time a month twenty-seven days so long ago. He’s supposed to be tougher than this. He’s supposed to take any punch, any pain the world throws at him, and grin back with bloody teeth and not a care in the world. This shouldn’t—

And then he’s angry, angry that Ford would do this to him, would treat him like garbage after everything they’ve gone through. He’s angry that his brother tossed him to the side the moment he got a better offer. He’s angry that one mistake cost him everything he ever knew, and Ford just closed the damn curtains. He’s angry that Ford decided to burn down the boat, their his dream, everything inside of it that he could have used or sold to keep himself alive. He’s so angry at Ford, at his dad, at that dumb school, at all of it.

Somehow, he’s the angriest at himself for going back and hoping things would be different.

He’s angry that he was dumb enough to think he still had a brother.

“Stupid,” he says between strangled sobs, his throat constricting around the word.

He’s angry that he’s still crying over something he can’t change.

He’s angry that, even after everything that happened, he still feels guilty for hitting that table.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Every word is punctuated with his hand smacking the steering wheel, each one harder than the last. As if it’ll get the anger out. As if it’ll make him feel more in-control again. As if it will make it all hurt just a little less if his hand stings a little more.

“Stupid Ford.” Smack. “With his stupid school.” Smack. “And his stupid project.”

His palm is tingling.

It’s nothing in comparison.

Did he ever care about any of it in the first place?

Was all of it a lie?

That angers boils, a tight pressure behind his ribcage that still feels suspiciously like devastation, like heartbreak, but he tells himself its anger because then at least hitting something should make it go away.

So he wails on the steering wheel, cursing every god under the sun and everything and everyone that ever wronged him. And it feels good at first, giving the hurt somewhere else to go for the time being. Venting the frustration and the pain and the wrongness of it all. So he curses and he screams and he punches that damn steering wheel until his hands feel raw, and he’s yelling at Ford for starting that damn fire and Ford for hating him all this time and Ford for pretending he wanted a brother and himself for believing it and himself for wanting it and himself for hoping and dreaming and thinking he was finally going to get to be happy when of course that’s horse-shit because why would anything ever turn out alright for him and Ford for still getting everything he ever wanted and himself for still feeling proud at that and Ford for thriving while he’s barely surviving and— and—

He’s better off without you.

His throat hurts, and he’s still choking back sobs through it all, tears soaking his cheeks. His hand connects with the steering wheel one more time, but it’s almost hesitant, tired. He can feel himself crumpling inwards, everything caving in, as if now that everything he ever had is gone, there’s nothing left holding the last pieces of him together, the last bit of anger draining out and leaving him nothing in its wake.

He’d be better off if you—

A car horn wails, but he knows it wasn’t him, and he blinks up through blurry eyes to see another car heading right towards him.

It must be some kind of instinct that has him yanking the wheel to the side. The car jerking back across the median. Off the side of the road. Everything jolting as he slams the brake on the shoulder. The tires squealing before everything finally stops.

There’s a long moment, as the blare of the other car’s horn fades into the distance, tears still streaming freely, when all he can do is sit there. He doesn’t know how his brain can simultaneously feel like it’s full of cotton and full of bees, his heart slamming in his chest.

His hands are trembling as he fumbles the car into park.

And then the moment breaks like shattered glass.

“Shit,” he breathes, his voice wobbling, still wet with the tears dropping from his chin. His hands find the steering wheel, squeezing the fake leather until his knuckles turn white so that they’ll just stop shaking. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He tells himself he’s angry. He tells himself, because the other thing is more than he can handle right now. More than he think he’ll ever be able to handle.

Should have just driven by when you had the chance.

Maybe he’d hoped he could fix things. Maybe he’d hoped Ford would forgive him. Maybe he figured there was no way he could make things worse anyways.

Maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe

Maybe he was wrong.

And just maybe when he’d thought he couldn’t get any lower than rock-bottom, he’d gone and dug himself a deeper hole.

He supposes that’s what he gets for hoping.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

But it did. And it went to hell, just like everything else you touch.

He knows he’s a screw-up in every meaning of the word, but he never thought he’d manage to mess up the one thing in this world that actually mattered.

He never thought he’d lose—

He can’t even finish the thought, because that makes it true, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle that, either.

Shouldn’t have gone back.

Shouldn’t have—

He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and just tries to breathe, one stuttering breath after another.

He tells himself the water still spilling down his cheeks is rain or ocean brine or something other than what it is.

He tells himself it’s just anger.

He tells himself he doesn’t need any of them.

He tells himself things will be better one day.

He tells himself a lot of things.

But just below the surface, he’s well aware that every single one of them is a lie.

So he just sits there on the side of the road, alone, and… tries to breathe.

He just tries to breathe.

~ ~ ~

He’s already turned around long before the bell on top of the pawn shop door rings to announce Stan’s exit, has already slammed the door to the apartment behind him. He takes the stairs two at a time, and he faintly swears there’s something wrong with his legs, some slight wobble, something wrong with more than that.

He doesn’t think about it too hard.

When he comes into the living room, Ma is sitting on her window perch, watching him, and he tries not to register the hurt in her creased brow, the slight tug downwards in her lips. Pa is in his armchair, face hidden behind the newspaper. He doesn’t even look up when Ford comes in.

He makes a beeline to their the his bedroom, his eyes following the familiar treaded path in the carpet to the stairs. That way he can’t see Ma’s disappointment, Pa’s—

“Son,” Pa says, voice gruff. The word is a command, one that stops Ford in his tracks with his foot on the first worn stair, his spine going rigid. He hears Pa flip the page of his newspaper, the beat of silence stretching for far too long before— “I’m impressed. Glad you finally got up the nerve to kick that no good, low life—"

He doesn’t remember the rest, only the sound of the bedroom door clicking closed behind him as he breathes out a long, low sigh. The wood door is hard against his back as leans his whole weight into it, his mind buzzing numbly, the thoughts in his own head still blissfully absent, hopefully left behind in the pawn shop until they dissipate and stay forgotten.

He has too much to do now. Too much to worry about.

He can’t afford to think about certain things too hard.

His chest feels tight, so he takes a deep breath in, closing his eyes to feel the air filling his lungs. He never changed out of his clothes from last night, the smoke still embedded in the fabric of his shirt. He can still taste it in the back of his throat, bitter and raw.

He pushes himself off the door, aiming towards the center of the room, determined to do one last check to make sure he got everything of value. But something catches his attention when he moves, giving him pause. There’s something in his front pocket, bending and slightly pressing into his leg. Confused, he reaches in, fingers gripping and pulling out the piece of paper, smooth to the touch and thick enough that it—

…

Something twists harshly in his gut, something that registers as guilt.

He tells himself not to think about it too hard, but the thoughts still drift up from the shop below like smoke. Every word, every glare, every bit of cruelty replaying and overlapping and reverberating in his head like some discordant canon. The utterly destroyed look on Stan’s face seared into his memory. The taste of acid on his tongue as the words trapped inside his head finally spilled out.

He only ever cared about the boat. Not about you.

Not about you.

Only his treasure-hunting.

You were just convenient.

He tells himself not to think about it. To move on.

If that’s what you want, fine. I’ll never bother you—

He stuffs the picture back in his pocket, trying to forget the pair of twins smiling up at him, standing proudly on the remains of an old boat, carefree and naïve.

There’s just too much to do, too much to worry about right now.

He tells himself it’s all for the best anyways.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and moves to pick up the last packed box, purposely turning away from the empty bunk bed as he heads out of the room.

For the best.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

He doesn’t look back.

#pinesbrosfallswrites #stan pines #stanford pines #stangst #gravity falls fanfiction #fanficiton #my writing #don't let the beginning fool you #it's all downhill from here #(also i resent tumblr for taking away my linebreaks)

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vannahfanfics · 5 years ago

Note

May I request A current in-character canon-compliant, soft, angsty, romantic soowon x yona endgame fic please 🙏 thank you very much!!

Hello, dear! Very sorry it took a while to get this request to you; I’ve had a lot going on with the semester and my 200-follower event and such. However, at long last, here it is! ^.^ Enjoy!

Mad World

The wooden floor of her palace room groaned and moaned with her feverish footfalls as Yona paced back and forth, back and forth, back and back and forth and forth and back again. That was all Yona could do, was pace and think and think while pacing and pace while thinking. Back and forth, think think think, riddle on what the hell she was supposed to do basically imprisoned in her bedroom like this. No dragons, no Yoon, no Hak, just Yona. Yona, alone and pacing and thinking.

It was maddening.

With a sudden, deranged screech of lunacy, she whirled on her heel to tear into the curtains framing the large window overlooking the palace courtyard. Her fingernails ripped into the silken fabric, reaming into the threads and pulling them asunder as she yanked on the curtain with all her might. Little, angry screeches spilled from her mouth while she tugged and tugged, rattling the curtain rod mounted into the stone wall. The linear metal piece desperately tried to cling to the rough surface, but with Yona’s continuous and manic assault, dust began to rain down as the brackets began to wrench loose. Yona wasn’t sure why the poor curtain was the object of her ire, but nevertheless she tore into it like a mangy feral cat, dropping shreds of torn fabric around her slippered feet. Very soon the screws could bear no more and jumped from the wall; the heavy, decorative metal ball welded to the main body made the rod’s plummet all the hastier. Yona jumped violently as it collided into the wooden floor with a massive thunk! and the curtain slipped from her hands to puddle like white milk at her feet. She stared dully at the half-destroyed, dismounted curtains with burning red eyes. It was not satisfying at all; her fingers still itched to maim, to tear into everything in this room and leave it a maelstrom of silk and cotton and splinters.

“Princess! Are you all right?” Of course the noise would attract whoever happened to be nearby. Yona hadn’t much cared of the consequences of her actions at the moment; she was boiling with boredom and anxiety and frustration, and desperately needed an outlet. Normal people might cry, but Yona had elected that tears wouldn’t do. She was beyond tears now, or so she told herself. But…

Why did it have to be Soo-Won?

The young king stared with wide eyes at the curtain rod hanging at a diagonal angle from the wall, the one set of brackets struggling to support its weight, and the tatters of silk curtain surrounding the hem of Yona’s pink kimono. Her eyes were lidded and cold as she just watched him gawk. This was all his fault, really. Sure, Yona had decided to entire an alliance and come to the palace, but if Soo-Won hadn’t set off the chain of events that resulted in that alliance, this wouldn’t be happening.

Yona immediately regretted the thought. She knew better now. If none of this had happened, her people would still be struggling and Yona would be living in blissful ignorance. Sometimes, however, she just couldn’t help but crave that ignorance… Especially when the lingering flames of her love for Soo-Won decided to rear their ugly heads.

Yona’s mouth curled in on itself as her heart lurched in her chest just at the sight of him. It was maddening, the way her desire to dig her fingernails into his cheek mixed with her longing to softly caress it, the way her desire to rip every one of those flax-golden hairs out of his head mixed with her longing to run her hands through him, the way her desire to scream and yell and curse him in a thousand tongues mixed with her longing to throw herself at him and sob and beg and surrender. Maddening, yes it was. It was driving Yona to near insanity, and as she stood there, she was wide-eyed and teetering on an abyss from which there was no return.

“Yona.” His voice was soft and full of concern as he uttered her name. His eyes, still huge with the sight of Yona’s shredded prey, finally flickered up to meet her own fiery ones like dawn. To his credit, he did not flinch away at the inferno there; he just stared, measuring, waiting for her response. “Are you… displeased?” he said finally when she refused to respond. Really, Yona was still so embroiled with her own feelings that she couldn’t formulate a response. His question returned some sense of normalcy to her mind. The fire died in her eyes, cooled by the sheer incredulity at his question.

“‘Displeased,’” she echoed. Slowly, like water trickling from within rocks piled high, her wits returned to her. Her head dropped to do as Soo-Won had, stare numbly at the carnage she had wrought on the poor, innocent drapery. Her hands began to sting terribly with the weight of the own violence she had wrought, as if they were coated in hot, sticky, burning blood and insides. They were just curtains; it wasn’t like she had killed someone. Still, Yona’s stomach flopped about with the unsettling possibility that if someone had stumbled upon her in her mania, she might very well have unleashed on them like a woman possessed. It made the bitter acid of shame flood her tongue. Yona had never been so violent before. Sure, she had done violent things, but always with good reason. This was wanton destruction, and the fact that it was borne of her own hands rattled her to her core.

Well, it wasn’t entirely without reason, she rationalized. “Displeased,” she repeated in a hoarse voice. “Displeased” didn’t even scratch the surface of what she was feeling right now. She didn’t have a word for what she was feeling right now. Silent, teeth clenched, she just stared at the mangled curtains and lamented her own sorry state of being. How had it come to this? Cool, calm, collected, and strong to manic, deranged and mad?

“Yona.” His voice called her with maddening power. Of its own accord, Yona’s head rose to obediently meet his beckoning gaze. She hadn’t heard his footsteps, but he had closed the distance and was standing in front of her. She compulsively swallowed. His eyes were the one burning now, pulsing with a soft yet furious heat that made her tremble. It wasn’t anger, or disappointment, or disdain; it was something else entirely, and it both frightened and excited her. He tilted his head to the side slightly as he smiled that gentle reassuring smile that she missed so dearly but wanted to slap off his face. “Tell me what happened.”

She wanted to lie. She did not want to admit that she had just had a psychotic fit and wrenched the curtain rod off the wall and destroyed the curtains like some kind of beast. Yona, however, felt the pitiful attempts at falsehoods dissolving on her tongue under Soo-Won’s gentle yet critical stare. There was no point in lying and he knew well enough what she had just done. “This alliance isn’t working out the way you wanted it to, is it?” he asked her with a degree of amusement in his voice that made her skin itch with fury.

“No. No, it is not, Soo-Won.” The steel in her voice was sharper than the finest-crafted blade. At the iron on her tongue, the king exhaled deeply and his body sagged sadly. The reaction disquieted her; was he acting for her benefit or truly displeased that she was going crazy cordoned off in this bedroom? His eyes shut for a second, and when they opened, Yona felt electric shocks pulse over every single one of her nerves. The way he was staring at her, apologetic and guilty, was a look she had imagined every day since she witnessed him drawing a bloody sword from her father’s limp body.

It was not satisfying, not at all. Somehow, she wanted more. The madness began to scratch and howl in her ringing skull again.

“How dare you. How dare you look all sad and guilty when I’m stuck here with nothing to do but pace and think and fret all day!” she screamed at him suddenly. She lunged at him, fingers clawing into his kingly robes like they had done the curtains, but rather than shredding them, she only clutched onto them with an iron grip. Her red eyes burned as they bore into his, as if a glare alone could make his combust. “How dare you. You want to know what happened? I am losing my mind! I can’t take it anymore!” A dam erupted inside of her, releasing long-held feelings and tears. They were like rivers of ice and fire as they flooded down her cheeks, and her voice cracked as she hissed again, “I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know what is up and what is down. My mind is reeling. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t know what you’re doing, and the one single comfort I could be afforded while I’m all but your prisoner in here is barred from me!” Her head dropped, chin banging against her chest. Her quivering hands held onto his clothes like the were the lifeline preventing her from being washed out to sea. She hated herself right now, admitted all this to him. But if she didn’t release it to anyone, even if it has to be Soo-Won, she really was going to go insane. What was her country? What was her fate? What was Soo-Won’s plan and how should she respond? These questions plagued her, maddeningly so.

With the weight of her on psyche mounting on her frail body, her knees finally buckled. Soo-Won reflexively caught her under her elbows as her legs folded in on themselves. Sobbing and groaning, she just cried pathetically while he held her up. “And you know… you know what the worst part is?” she choked out between sobs. “I hate you, but I love you. I despise you for what you did but I love you still. I thought I had grown so much, but I came back here, and it all has come crashing down upon me. I’m still that naïve, foolish little girl who wasn’t worth killing.”

“Yona!” She did not expect such harsh bite from his voice. It made her head snap up to look at him with wide and watery eyes. His lips were drawn into a taut line and his eyes were their fieriest yet. “I did not let you go because you were ‘not worth killing.’”

“Then why?” she demanded in an agonized cry. Her fingers dug further into his clothes, probably bruising the skin underneath. “Why, Soo-Won, I don’t under-”

The rest of her words came out as a surprised squeak muffled by his lips crashing into hers. It was not at all kingly, the way he kissed it her; it was passionate, carnal, desperate and mad. If Yona’s legs had been able to support her then, her kneecaps would’ve been obliterated to dust the instant their mouths smashed together. Her eyes fluttered shut with a low, needy whine; as if responding, Soo-Won’s tongue pushed into her mouth and tangled feverishly with her own. She didn’t object. She got drunk off him like she was partaking in the finest wine in the world, her tongue savoring every little bit of his essence. She could vaguely feel his fingers in her dawn-colored hair, caressing and twisting, but most of her senses were dominated by the explosion of feeling fireworking over her body. Oh, oh, how she had wanted this, and how much she hated herself for it.

She lamented the loss of his warmth and touch as he pulled away, and despite herself, her lips involuntarily chased him. She wanted to spend forever in that kiss. In that hazy fog, she didn’t have to think about the circumstances or how wrong it was; she just had to think about him, her mouth on hers and his hands on her body. It was simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. He permitted her pursuit for a moment, giving her another softer kiss with more feeling, but pulled back again after a few seconds. He said her name and it pulled her out of the fog, back to her confusing and complicated and maddening reality.

“Does that answer your question?” His voice was breathy and laced with a fair bit of irritation. Maybe with himself, maybe with Yona- maybe both. She swallowed and licked her lips, mouth suddenly drying up. Was she supposed to be satisfied with that? A kiss that seals the deal and makes everything all right? The trouble was that she was one hundred percent satisfied with that.

She stepped away from him, trying to hide the tremor in her still-recuperating jellified legs. She felt that her hands needed to be doing something so she smoothed out nonexistent creases in her kimono. Her brain whirled desperately trying to make sense of everything, but nothing made sense anymore. That was her problem to begin with. “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’” He sounded amused, like he had expected it.

“What do you expect?” she huffed. The fight was dying from her voice and spirit, replaced with indescribable weariness. She was so tired. She was so tired of fighting whatever this fight was, but that was the only thing Yona could think to do was fight. Surrender simply was not in the meek, naïve, ignorant princess’ blood, apparently. Her hands continued to fix her perfectly fine kimono while she refused to look at him. “I just… I can’t…” God, she couldn’t even explain herself. This is not how she wanted to look in front of him, flustered and stupid. It was like her previous self had been taken captive and replaced with a bungling imposter, and she was trying so desperately to get it back with little luck. Her hand began stringing through her hair, which was crimping uncomfortably with sweat. All the while, Soo-Won watched her, thankfully without pity. “I hate you,” she grumbled finally, because it was the only thing that sort of made sense.

“I know.” Oh, hell, no, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t get that sad look on his face and think that it made it all okay. But it did. In Yona’s stupid, manic, mad mind, it made it okay. Defeated, she kicked the curtain rod aside and sank down on the cushioned seat that sat below the windowsill.

“I love you,” she simpered as she put her flushing face in her hands. She didn’t have to look at him to know he had that other look on his face, that soft, gentle smile that made her heart sing and wail simultaneously. That smile that carried a hint of sadness that never faded.

“I know that, too.” A period of silence settled between them. She peered through her fingers to see his own twitching, like he was trying to figure out how to comfort her but arriving at no conclusions. She couldn’t blame him. She didn’t know what to do with herself, either. As she sat there, the moonlight cool on her back as it flood through the unshielded window behind her, Yona finally began to feel a sense of normalcy returning to her. She partitioned off the confusing kiss and focused instead on her situation and what she ought to do about it, and was beginning to feel that clear-headed determination return to her. I just have to keep fighting. That is all I can do. I will resist as long as I have to and find out what Soo-Won wants…

She felt the cushioning dip beside her and heard the slight ringing of the metal as it rolled over the wooden floor when Soo-Won seated himself beside her. “I wish things were simple.”

“You’re the one who made it complicated.” She kept her face buried in her hands because she didn’t know what would happen if she looked at him.

“I suppose that’s true.” His laugh was hollow and mirthless. “I wish I could explain it all to you. I really do. But if I did, I didn’t know if you would believe me.”

“Can’t fault you for that.” Another hollow, joyless laugh that rang through the quiet bedroom, followed by a slight sigh. “I’m not giving up, you know. Don’t think this changes things. I just needed to get it out of my system.”

“No, I expect you won’t.” She finally lifted her head to look up at him, finding him smiling as he looked at her out of his peripheral vision. “You wouldn’t be the girl I loved if that happened.”

Surprisingly, her body garnered no reaction from that bombshell of a statement. It felt more like she had known it all along and she was vindicated now. It made a funny taste tingle on her tongue, one she couldn’t quite place; possibly a mixture of things. He smiled more as he pushed himself up from the seat and began heading for the door. “I’ll send someone to fix that in the morning,” he said with a lazy gesture to the destroyed curtains. Yona watched him go with confliction and a heavy heart.

“Yeah. Sure.” Once the frame of the sliding door clacked against the threshold, she exhaled loudly and flopped onto her side; the cushion embraced her, sinking her down into its fluffy softness. With the adrenaline no longer pumping in her system, her muscles now felt the strain of torturing the curtains. Dully, she stared down at its wispy corpse spread out over the wood floor.

The Celestial Dragons. The usurper King Soo-Won. The displaced princess. The Thunder Beast. The unknown battle for the world as they knew it.

Maddening, it all was to Yona. Somehow, though, the one thing that should be the most maddening was no longer maddening at all. She smiled thinly to herself and rolled onto her back, the moonlight washing over her like enclosing her in a blanket.

You drive me mad, Soo-Won… But still, I love you so.

Enjoy this story? Here’s Part II! Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#yonawon #soowon x yona #soowonxyona #yona x soowon #yonaxsoowon #yona x soo-won #soo-won x yona #yonaxsoo-won #soo-wonxyona #yona of the dawn #yotd #akatsuki no yona #yotd yona #yotd soo-won #yotd soowon #yotd fanfiction #yotd fanfic #akayona #sooyona

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